And All the King’s Horses
by Lost In A Dark Wood
Summary: After Voldermort’s fall, no one’s star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger’s. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.  Dark AU, not for kiddies.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **And All the King's Horses  
**Genre: **Mystery, Angst  
**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione  
**Rating: **T

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. This work is for fun, not profit.

**Summary:** After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.

**Author's Notes: **First HP fanfic. This story is dark in its themes—touching upon rape, slavery, submission, insanity, and betrayal. The rating may go up. Also, the first few chapters may be a bit confusing. You should note that not everything will be in chronological order, and this story is not DH compliant—the main difference stems from the fact that Snape died before he could tell Harry about Voldemort. Let me know if anything's confusing.

**Chapter One  
In which a young man visits the man who has haunted his nightmares since he was four**

The boy almost whimpers when his wand is taken from him, except that whimpering is undignified. His Father taught him that.

Even with his wand he had felt bare—unprotected. A thousand hurtful thoughts raced through his mind, silky clouds of pitch black venom. Now without his wand he feels naked. No, not naked. Naked is just the very tip of his despair. He feels like a child again. But not, because he hasn't really been a child since he was four. He feels like the four year old hiding behind the curtains in the living room. _There's a man, a friend of his Mother's. And then his Father. And then some yelling. His Father and the man, yelling—saying awful things, things he doesn't understand. His Mother starts screaming. That's the most terrifying thing of all. His Mother's never screamed before. She'll never scream again, until— That's besides the point. His Mother is so calm, so docile, she always does what Father wants. Now she's screaming too. Crying. Father looks like he's about to hit her, and he cries out, but his screams of terror are drowned out by his own Mother's scream of pain. His Mother's on the floor now, crying, and Father immediately looks sad. Father's tone changes. Father is kneeling next to Mother. Mother is sobbing quietly, and Father is trying to calm her down. He wants to run to Mother, but he can't he's afraid. Afraid of his own Father._

_His eyes are so intensely focused on Father and Mother that he doesn't notice the man as he pulls out his wand. There's just a sudden flash. He's never seen it before, but he knows it's a spell and he can feel that it's a bad one. Father crumples to the ground. Father is the one screaming now. It sounds awful, like father is dying, and he doesn't even know what death means. Father is rolling around on the floor uncontrollably, screaming, screaming, screaming, and Mother is sobbing on the floor, huddled, sobbing. The man kicks Father to the side, but it doesn't seem to make a difference—the screams can't possibly get any worse. Then the man goes to Mother, and he is terrified that the man will hurt her like he hurt Father, but he can't move from behind the curtain._

_Mother is standing. She looks like a ghost. More than usual._

_The man is kicking Father, harder and harder. The screams aren't changing._

_Father is writhing on the floor. Screaming._

_Mother is standing._

_Tears are rolling down his cheeks. He's too terrified to scream anymore. Suddenly Mother's eyes lock with his. She sees him, and looks even more like a ghost. She looks to the man, still kicking, then to Father, and finally back to him. He thinks tears are rolling down her cheeks, but he can't be sure. She reaches into her dress and pulls out a wand. He's never seen Mother's wand before. He didn't realize she had one. Without flinching she points her wand at the man and says something. The man falls. Father stops screaming, and Mother falls to her knees, her face in her hands._

_He runs to Mother, who holds him tightly. Tightly, tightly, he thinks he'll die._

Now, without his wand, he braces himself and tries to be brave for Mother. The Auror opens the door and leads him through a long dark passage, to another door. The Auror does not open this door, so he does it himself; his hands tremble. Finally the door is open. He steps through the threshold and prepares himself to look into the eyes of the man who has haunted his nightmares since he was four.

The man is different now. Azkaban has robbed his hair of its distinctive hue. His eyes are dull and sunken and his head lulls dully to the side.

The man looks like Mother.

He pushes the thought out of his mind and pulls out a slab of chocolate. The man makes no reaction, so he walks forward and offers it to him. Still nothing. He walks closer, and finally breaks a piece off and shoves it through the man's lips. Only then does he begin to move, weakly chewing the chocolate. Once the piece is done his eyes look a little bit brighter. The boy offers up the rest of the bar and weakly the man reaches up for it and shoves it into his mouth like a starving rat. Only once he has finished does he sit up moderately straight.

"My Mother is ill."

"I know."

"She fell ill after looking into the mirror your brothers wanted to buy. I want to know what you did to her."

"I loved her."

It's too much for him, and he's no longer four years old. He slaps the man hard. "Bastard. You're a fucking bastard, and I hope you rot in Hell." He turns to leave.

"If you want to know, it was your father."

He stops. "You are going to tell me what you mean, and if I don't like your answer, I'm going to kill you."

"Listen boy, I've been to Hell and back, and back again. Your idle threats don't scare me. If you're anything like your father you wouldn't have the guts to kill a spider, and even if you did kill me, that would be a mercy, and then you'd have to deal with my brothers. From what I hear they're even more powerful than your father these days. It was your father and your grandfather. You'll never believe me. For my part, my only regret is that I didn't kill him when I had the chance. But a bastard like that deserved to suffer. Poor bastard, you know, I think he's actually deceived himself into thinking he loves her."

"What are you talking about?"

"I told you, you'd never believe me. You have no reason to. I tortured your father. But if you want to know, I'd suggest you go to the law books. Your mother was good at research. I wonder, are you as brilliant as she was—

"Stop referring to my mother in the past tense. She isn't dead yet!"

"Of course she is. She's been dead for twenty years. Maybe you inherited your father's wit. But I'm a Gryffindor, I believe in fair play, so I'll give you a hint: the Marriage Law."

That was that—nothing more could be gotten out of the man, and before long the effects of the chocolate wore off. Unhappily the boy left the room. The Auror escorted him back and gave him back his wand. He left like a bat out of Hell, and didn't breathe easily until he set foot in his room at home. First thing in the morning he would visit Grandfather at the Ministry and ask him about the Marriage Law.

**Author's Notes:** Loved it, hated it, completely confused? Lemme know. I generally answer all reviews in as much detail as relevant.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: **And All the King's Horses  
**Genre: **Mystery, Angst  
**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione  
**Rating: **T

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. This work is for fun, not profit.

**Summary:** After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.

**Author's Notes: **Last chapter was really confusing, and it was meant to be so. I think this next chapter, while not explaining everything will make things much clearer. Enjoy!

**Chapter Two  
In which a grown man writes a letter to his daughter and lies**

There's the slightest hint of a tremble in the man's long, elegant fingers as they dip the raven quill into the serpentine inkwell filled with green ink. He seems to be concentrating very hard as he pulls the quill out, and waits for the excess ink to drip off. The movement to the parchment only slightly more fluid, though an unskilled observer might attribute perfect grace to the movement. The quill finally makes it to its intended destination: the upper-left-hand corner of the sheet, an inch from the top and an inch from the side. The quill hovers for a while, and it's just now that the shaking in the hand becomes visible to even the most inattentive of watchers.

A single drop of ink which has been collecting at the tip of the quill suddenly falls, creating a rather unsightly blotch, an inch from the top and an inch from the left. The man blinks, once, twice, three times—the quill falls from his hand, hitting the parchment straight on and only making more of a mess. His next action is swift and smooth. For the first time this day his movement truly is graceful: with a single blow he knocks everything off his desk. The inkwell shatters on impact; green ink flies everywhere. It's on his hand, on his desk, on the carpet, on the tapestry—everywhere. There's even a shard of glass embedded in his hand.

Suddenly it's too much for him. He begins to cry. Softly at first, a few hot tears stroll down his cheeks. Then he buries his face in his hands. Next come the sobs which grow increasingly violent, until his whole body is shaking violently from the sobs.

It isn't manly, he knows. His Father taught him not to cry. It isn't manly. It isn't noble. It isn't dignified.

He doesn't give a fuck. He feels dead inside. He's tired of having to go to St. Mungo's to see his wife, tired of the reality that his wife may never get better. He misses her. He loves her. He wants to die without her.

His Father doesn't understand of course. She was nothing more than a pawn to his Father, so how could he understand that she's so much more to him. She's the air he breathes, the blood that flows through his veins, the water he drinks, the food he eats, the magic that makes him whole. Without her he's grey, dull, incomplete.

And all his Father can say is "Good riddance. Maybe we can finally find you a bride worthy of your bloodline."

Bloodlines… He's stopped caring about blood so long ago. He doesn't care if it is mud, she's the blood that makes him live.

At first he couldn't believe it. The mediwitch was lying. A bribe from the Weasley Twins—a cruel practical joke. Revenge.

But even then he knew. He felt a dullness in his soul. Like part of him was gone. And seeing her, her bright eyes glazed over, looking into space, her pink face gray like unwashed sheets, he knew.

He knew it was all Weasley's fault. He didn't know which one, but he didn't give a rat's ass. He was going to kill them all for what they'd done to his beloved wife. But there is nothing he can do against them. They are too powerful a family—his own family's power hangs by a thread and Father would never permit something that might destroy their power.

Now he finds that he's making bargains with himself. _If she gets better, I'll stop drinking coffee. _Then, when that doesn't work, _If she gets better, I'll leave all my worldly possessions behind._ Then, _If she gets better I'll start a fund for muggle orphans_. Finally, _If she gets better, I'll make sure that the Weasel gets out of Azkaban. _

Nothing's worked so far. He's gotten on his knees and prayed to every god and demon he's ever heard of. He's offered up his soul, and Satan hasn't picked it up. His wife is still in St. Mungo's, staring blankly at the wall. A part of him is terrified, because in the pit of his stomach, the part where he can feel the part of his soul that is missing, he knows that she's never coming back to him, and it makes him want to die.

After a very long time he stops crying, mainly because he has no more tears to shed. His wife's miserable house elf pops gently into the room, offering up a handkerchief. The stupid creature's eyes are large and wet with pity. It's too much for him and he picks up the only think left on his desk—an ugly paperweight, and throws it at the creature's head before the creature itself disappears and the paper weight shatters against the wall, leaving a dent.

The paperweight was a gift from his wife. He takes his wand out and can barely word out the command _reparo_ to fix the pretty shattered glass. If only it were so easy to fix his wife. With the paperweight back on his desk he sets about the task of assembling his desk back the way it was before. Finally, it looks exactly as it did. Only the quill and parchment are permanently ruined. He pulls out a new feather and a new sheet and begins to write in green ink.

_Darling Rose,_

_I am most pleased to hear that you have been sorted into Slytherin. I will soon relay the news to Grandfather. I am certain that he will be extraordinarily proud of your sorting. He was rather displeased with Scorpius's placement, but it is my hope that some good will come of it. As you know, he is likely to be nominated Prefect for his House next year and as such will be able to offer you no small protection from the ruffians in his House. While it is always preferable to be secure by one's own efforts, one ought always to take advantage of any advantage._

_As to your request, I have included the specified funds with this owl. I trust that you will not spend the money unwisely. Also, I am very glad to hear that you have been getting along so splendidly with your Housemates. If you wish to spend the Christmas holidays at the Zambini's and they are willing to have you as your guest, then I am all for the arrangement. The Manor these days is particularly gloomy without your mother—certainly no place for a beautiful little flower like my Rose._

_With most tender love,  
Your adoring Father_

_P.S. It may be in your interest to pay special attention to the packages arriving by owl post in the next few days. I think you will be pleasantly surprised._

He casts a spell to make the ink dry faster and then rolls the parchment up and places his seal in bright green wax upon it before giving it and a small parcel to his owl. The owl nips playfully at his fingers, but he simply flicks the creature off, and soon it leaves him alone. Afterwards he simply sits in his study. He has not told his daughter that he wants nothing more in the world than to have her home with him while he waits for her mother to get better again, nor that he cannot stand the prospect of spending Christmas by himself. He has mentioned none of the things that trouble him because to do so would be unmanly, un-noble, undignified.

An hour goes by and he does not get up. He is alone in the house and sees no purpose in leaving the room. Around dinnertime the same monstrous house elf appears with a tantalizing feast which remains untouched, long into the night until the next morning when the house elf finally appears to take it back.

**Author's Notes: **A completely different sort of angst in this one. Still very angsty—I hope I didn't overdo it. A note about names: I hate naming OC children… I really do. I was originally going to call Rose "Helen" but when I decided to stick with the name Scorpius, I decided to have fun twisting the canon.

If you've enjoyed this chapter, let me know in a review. It makes me really happy when I get nice things in my inbox, and very sad when there's nothing there right after I post a story. Also, I'm planning to write this story very quickly. Once we get into Christmas season I'm going to be working on a couple of Avatar fanfics that really need to be updated, and well, let's just say that the more I get written for this story before then, the better. Reviews are like ambrosia for inspiration. J

Thanks!


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: **And All the King's Horses  
**Genre: **Mystery, Angst  
**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione  
**Rating: **T

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. This work is for fun, not profit.

**Summary:** After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.

**Author's Notes: **This chapter should be the clearest of all (so far). It's also worth knowing that these first three installments are all happening concurrently.

**Chapter Three  
In which another grown man visits his estranged childhood friend **

He had told himself that he would not come. He had thought about it, and he had very specifically decided that he would not come. But he had had to come visit his mother and father. Especially now that Gran is gone, he _had _to visit his mother and father. So he had, and his mother and father had been exactly the way they've always been. Well, not always. He's been told that they were different before. Before Bellatrix Lestrange. Gran used to tell him all about his mother and father. Then there were the Daily Prophet clippings: a scattering of yellow paper and faded print which testified to the fact that there had been a time when his mother had done more than give him gum wrappers. A time when his mother and father had been great, powerful, strong, brave, brilliant—everything that he had wanted to be when he was a child.

And of course, there are the photographs. Pictures of his mother as a girl. Pictures of his father as a boy. Pictures of his mother and father together at Hogwarts. Pictures of his mother and father at Auror training. Pictures of his mother and father in the Order of the Phoenix.

And of course, there are those few magical photographs of his beautiful mother holding him in his arms while his handsome father held her in his.

That's all there is however. Nothing more than faded photographs, faded newsprint, faded memories that never belonged to him anyway, and worst of all the faded husks of a man and a woman who had been his parents once, but now were just that—faded husks.

Those two miserable creatures—because really, to call them anything more than that would be to insult all that they once were, before—those two miserable creatures were what he had come to see. He had not come to see _her_.

But—since she _was_ here at St. Mungo's, once he was there, with his pockets freshly filled with gum wrappers, he had changed his mind.

So, now he is here, in a dismally depressing white room in St. Mungo's, with _her_.

To say that she looks like a ghost would be a lie. He knows ghosts. Some of them are good friends of his. All of them look better than she does. More alive at any rate. He doesn't even know what she looks like. Maybe like his mother. Except his mother's eyes aren't quite so dull; his mother's skin isn't quite so grey. It's strange. The first thing that comes to his mind is that with all that money, her husband could have certainly afforded a nicer room for her. Of course, it isn't her husband who has the purse strings in that household, but rather the old man—bastard—who probably has been counting the minutes for his daughter-in-law to die.

How awkward this is. After a lifetime of coming to see his mother and father in this place, he really shouldn't feel this uncomfortable. But he does.

He doesn't know what to do. He stays silent for a while because the only thing worse than hearing her voice in response would be not to hear anything.

He's terrified of the emptiness of silence. He has no idea what his mother's voice sounds like. Sometimes he even used to envy Harry, because at least Harry could remember Lily's voice, even if it was just her screams. He had something of her, something real, something better than Gran's stories, or old newspaper clippings, or faded photographs—he had memories that were his own.

Of course, he's not jealous of Harry anymore. For one thing, he can still think straight for more than ten minutes. He can still sleep through the night without waking up covered in cold sweat, not knowing why. He can still live by himself.

Harry isn't at St. Mungo's. St. Mungo's isn't equipped to deal with a patient as illustrious as Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. The Boy-Who-Saved-Us-All-From-Voldemort. The Boy-Who-Died-And-Lived-Again. The Boy-Who-Was-Never-The-Same. There are too many fans, too many nosy reporters, too many fanatical followers of You-Know-Who who would love to do to Harry Potter what Bellatrix Lestrange, _née _Black, did to his mother and father. Not that there's any need really. Harry's only slightly better off than his parents, and even then it's a matter of opinion. All three of them, however, are much better off than the grey woman in the room, and that's not a matter of opinion.

This is why the only thing more terrifying than silence is sound, why he was wrong to envy Harry's memories of his mother's screams.

He knew this woman once. Or no, he knew the girl who would become the woman who would become the ghost, who eventually became this grey shell. The girl was bright and brave and kind. The woman was brilliant and strong and loving. She was beautiful too. But she was beautiful after she had stopped being brilliant and strong. She was beautiful even when she stopped being bright and brave and kind. At that point the whole meaning of her essence was reduced to her physical beauty, when her reason for being was nothing more than to hang attractively off her husband's arm and give him delightful beautiful children. Even now, grey and living dead, she is still beautiful, in the way, perhaps, that Bellatrix Lestrange was still beautiful after Azkaban had whittled away her youth.

He knew and respected and loved the girl. He has so many memories of her. He can remember, as clearly as he can remember anything; hr remembers the sound of her laughter when Ron would say things to make her laugh, and he remembers the sound of her crying when Malfoy would say things to make her cry. He remembers the sound of her voice chastising first years for being inattentive to their studies, and he remembers the sound of her voice protesting the treatment of house elves. He remembers the patience of her voice as she tutored him in potions, and he remembers the panic in her voice as she freaked out about exams.

He remembers her so well, and that makes this all the worse.

And then there are her children. He knows there is a daughter, but he does not know her. He does however know the son—a poor misfit boy who owns too much green and silver and disappoints his father and grandfather for wearing red and gold. He is ashamed to admit that he has never been kind to the boy. It is hard. It is hard to look past his last name, past who his father is, past who his grandfather is, past who his grandmother was, and, hardest of all it is hard to look past who his grandaunt was. Or maybe not. Maybe what is truly hardest of all is to look past who his mother is and who his mother was.

Maybe it is time to look past all that, however.

He bows and places a faint kiss on the woman's forehead—a kiss to which she does not react (of course she wouldn't; that's not how these things work)—and turns around. He does not say goodbye because he said that long ago, and if he ever says anything to her again, he hopes it will be hello.

Tomorrow, after lessons, maybe he will call her son into her office. Maybe he will share some old photographs with him, and maybe they will drown out some of the screams, because maybe faded photographs of your smiling mother are better than vivid memories of her screams, and maybe, just maybe, he was the lucky one all along.

**To be continued… **

**Author's notes: **Reviews as always would be very much appreciated. Much love to all my reviewers.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: **And All the King's Horses  
**Genre: **Mystery, Angst  
**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione  
**Rating: **T

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. This work is for fun, not profit.

**Summary:** After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.

Justicar pointed out that my brackets were not closed. Apparently the site hates closing brackets, but opening brackets are ok. The easiest fix would be to use parentheses, but these are different from brackets, so I shall open my brackets with brackets and close them with parentheses. :(

**Author's Notes: This chapter is probably the creepiest thing I have ever written. **

**Chapter Four**

**In which the ghost of the Girl-Who-Could-Have-Been is silent**

His grandson _[mudblood bastard_) has been to visit him. The boy has somehow gotten in his head a question about the Marriage Law—too close for comfort. Fortunately, when the brat came he had been researching marriage laws.

Marriage laws there are many. _Marriage Law_ there is one. Of course, his grandson did not know this, and he certainly does not know it now. He grins contentedly at his own cleverness.

_"Grandfather, I was wondering if you could tell me about the Marriage Law?"_

_"Scorpius, dear child, which one?"_

_The boy looks dumbfounded, but what can one expect of a half-blood mutt like that[Rose is a different matter entirely. She is a _true_ Malfoy)._

_"Really Scorpius, you must be more specific than that. There are books upon books filled with laws about marriage." He holds up the book he had been reading before his grandson's interruption._

_Curious, the boy comes closer and reads a few words off the page._

_"Annulments of magical marriages?" The boy asks, clearly puzzled. "Grandfather, why would you be reading about that?"_

_He smiles, an old Slytherin smile. "A friend of mine requires help in a delicate question. His marriage, which I always knew to be a poor, but unfortunately necessary, match, has now become untenable. Unfortunately, it seems that the laws are rather stacked against his favor."_

_"Oh," is the boy's sole reply._

_"Now Scorpius, haven't you a train to catch?" The boy nods. "Well then, you'd best get back to the Manor. The last thing your Father needs now is to worry about you, and it would hardly be fair to make your darling sister miss her first train ride to Hogwarts."_

_"Oh, right. Sorry to bother you Grandfather."_

_"Bother me?" [Only by virtue of your birth.) "Nonsense dear boy. I'm never too busy for my favorite grandson. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some important matters to discuss with the Minister of Magic. You know the way home."_

_"Of course Grandfather."_

The meeting with the Minister hadn't gone at all as he would have liked. The minister had seemed rather intent on keeping that law about the validity of marriage "in sickness and in health." A minor disturbance of course—the Minister can always be bought, he smiles again, letting out all the wickedness in his soul because he knows that there is no one here who will ever tell the tale. And, of course, if the Minister can't be bought, he can always be blackmailed. His smile deepens.

"Poor dear Minister Iscariot, he sold his brother's fiancée for thirty Sickles, and if he doesn't want thirty more, so much the better. Isn't that right my dear?"

She doesn't answer. Of course, he didn't think that she would, or else he would never have said anything. Yes, yes, the issue at the Ministry will all work itself out in due time and his son will be free of his mudblood wife—free to marry a pure-blood worthy of his pedigree and continue the worthy line of Malfoy. But in the meantime, things aren't to his liking, and he finds the need to vent.

He looks at her. She is sitting on her bed, looking blankly at the wall. He walks closer to her. Still no reaction. He moves his hand to her cheek, brushing her hair out of her eyes, brushing his fingers against her flesh. Absent is the usual tremor.

"My, my, this promises to be interesting," he says aloud, to no one but to himself. If she can hear, it doesn't matter, and as for the staff, there's a silencing charm on the room…

The back oh his hand moves across he cheek and down her ivory neck. With both hands he pushes her hair behind her, and then his hands trace the lines of her limp left arm, until they finally come to her dead white hand. He takes her hand in his—it is remarkably warm—and bring her hand to his lips. Her ring finger into his mouth, and with his teeth he removes his son's ring from the girl's flaccid hand. He takes the ring out of his mouth and places it on the counter by her bed, and continues. The ring rolls off the counter, onto the floor, beneath the bed, but he is too busy to notice, let alone pick it up.

Through it all, she is silent.

**Author's Notes: **I can't say it enough. This chapter is probably the creepiest thing I have ever written, and I'm seriously considering upping the rating. (Advice?) I was originally going to write a chapter that brought the first three together, but I was struck by this image and it wouldn't let me go. As with the previous chapters, there's a lot of unexplained intrigue and junk. And no, Minister Iscariot is not an OC—Malfoy's just being nasty. A cookie for the first person to correctly guess the cannon name of the current Minister of Magic. I promise the next chapter will put a lot of things into perspective (it may actually be written in the past tense and in third person omniscient instead of faux-stream of consciousness, I'm not certain yet).

Also, when I said that the last three chapters were happening concurrently, I lied. The correct chronological order of the chapters is 1, 3, 4, 2. Scorpius goes to visit Ron in Azkaban. The next day, he goes to visit LM at the Ministry of Magic while Neville is visiting Hermione. Later that day LM visits Hermione while Draco takes Rose and Scorpius to King's Cross Station. That night, Rose is sorted into Slytherin, and the next day, Neville plans to talk to Scorpius about his mother after lessons. About a week later, Draco writes the letter to Rose. Makes sense? I probably should have stated somewhere that this story is not told in chronological order. From now on I will tell you guys when the chapters are taking place.

Happy holidays to you all! Be kind and don't forget to **review**!_ Please_.


	5. Chapter 5

**Title: **And All the King's Horses  
**Genre: **Mystery, Angst  
**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione  
**Rating: **T

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. This work is for fun, not profit.

**Summary:** After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.

**Author's Notes: Your regularly scheduled angst has been interrupted to bring you this important introduction to a new character. The angst will resume in the next update. **This chapter takes place in three time periods: First the sorting, then the first day of classes after the sorting, and then about a week after Draco sent that letter to Rose.

**Chapter Five  
In which we make our introductions to the talented young Miss Malfoy and the Author does not keep her word**

The hat has barely touched her hair when it knows what to do with her. She knows that it knows and she knows that it's against her best interests to seem too much like her father.

"Wait," she think-says to the hat, and it seems to listen to her because instead of crying out the word that she knows it will eventually cry out, it is silent and allows itself to fall onto her delicate auburn curls.

"Yes child?" it asks her.

"Oh, nothing, I just wanted to make sure you gave the matter proper thought."

"Proper thought child? Don't you want to be in Slytherin?"

"Well maybe, yes, but before you sort me, I'd like to be sure that I _ought _to be in Slytherin."

"Oh? Your father is a Slytherin, and his father was a Slytherin, and so on and so forth with all the Malfoys before them."

"Yes, but my mother's a Gryffindor."

"Your mother…yes. I remember her. Clever witch. I almost put her in Ravenclaw."

"Ravenclaw, don't you think I'm sharp enough to go there?"

"An enquiring mind, indeed. You thirst for knowledge, almost as much as you thirst for other things. And I can see that you have a clever mind. The cleverest I've seen in many decades."

"Thank you; you flatter me. Don't you think I'm brave?"

"Of course you are child. Even your mother didn't have the courage to engage me so. Do you want to go to Gryffindor?"

"Gryffindor? Good Heavens no. I want better things than that…" and then she pauses.

"Very cunning witch!" the hat exclaims suddenly into her head, she can feel a sort of outrage in its voice, and she smiles internally. "You know how to block my tendrils!"

"Indeed I do. A nifty trick I picked up from Grand Father. I really am a clever little snake, amn't I? And now that you've given enough thought to the matter to cast doubts into the minds of my peers, I think I would very much like to go to—

"SLYTHERIN!" The hat exclaims finally, as she knew that it would, and she feels it being lifted off her head. She looks, excited, confused, bewildered, and then she looks over to the Slytherin table, cheering her on. She smiles, her back to her brother because he knows her too well and would know that the smile is not one of youthful mirth at finding acceptance in a strange place. Looking frazzled she makes her way to the Slytherin table. The cheering soon subsides as the hat announces another sorting, this time in Hufflepuff and a collective eye roll passes over the table.

She looks around. At the edge of the table there are some whispering. From the looks on their faces she can tell what they're whispering about. She looks at them a second, locks eyes: _mudblood; blood-traitor_ the words meander in—another useful trick from Grand Father. It was to be expected. She came prepared. Oh, the great and terrible things that she can and will do. But all in due time. All in due time.

In the meantime she smiles. They won't dare to be nasty to her yet. She is after all a Malfoy, and fallen as that name may be, it does carry a certain power still.

- - -

Herbology, despite what her idiot brother has said, is dreadfully boring. The idiot-squib-of-a-blood-traitor is going on, and on and on and on and on. Blah, blah, blah. There is nothing coming out of the dreadfully boring man's mouth except things she's know since she was five. A question. Her hand shoots up. She looks around and finds that no one else is volunteering the information. They can't possibly not know the answer…

"Miss Gr—Malfoy?" Longbottom asks, his voice trembling a bit.

"The plant to which you are referring is the Devil's Snare, which can quite easily be combated with sunlight. A simple _incendio_ charm ought to be enough."

Longbottom smiles, and she smiles back. "Excellent Miss Malfoy. Ten points to Gr—Slytherin." Her smile widens. Maybe Herbology isn't completely useless. It is, however, terrifically dull. So dull in fact that her mind wanders and wanders and wanders. Hogwarts is turning up to be quite a disappointment. She visited the library earlier and found that most of the interesting books accessible to her were already safely lodged into her bookshelves at home. There are of course, interesting books, very interesting books which are not in her personal library. Unfortunately for the most part those books are not accessible and so long as she has not exhausted Grand Father's rather exhaustive collection, it might be in her interest to hold off on the request. No good has ever come of Malfoys reading, and she'll only be able to use the Mudblood trump so many times…

She smirks. Or smiles. There's not much of a difference for anyone but the most well trained observer. Her delicate features are similar enough to her mother's sweetness so that the cold sneer of her father is softened into a less mortifying expression. She's Grand Father's little Garden Snake. The smile deepens. It's her little joke with Grand Father.

"Miss Malfoy, is there something you might want to share with the class?" Professor Longbottom interrupts her thoughts.

"Pardon Professor?" she asks politely. The decorum of a pureblood, with the Mudblood's long lost sweetness.

"You were smiling rather intently, I thought perhaps you might know the answer…"

"Oh." She giggles. "I was just enjoying myself intently. I've looked forward to being here all my life, and now that I'm finally here, well let's just say the effect is magical. And the answer is Mandrake root."

Longbottom nodds. "Very good Miss Malfoy. Another ten points for Slytherin."

Her hand shoots up into the air. "Yes, Miss Malfoy?"

"I'm sorry Professor, but I hadn't raised my hand. To be equitable you ought to ask the Gryffindors. I'm sure they also know the answers and I don't want to seem like a bushy-haired know-it-all."

She smiles sweetly as she sees another tremble pass through Longbottom. The maneuver will cost her points in her Housemates' eyes, but she's banking that none of the Gryffindor rabble will know anything on the first day of lessons.

Longbottom doesn't call on her next when she raises her hand and makes his way through the five _courageous_ Gryffindors who thought to raise their hands. No one knows the answer. Finally Longbottom's lips open to reveal the correct response and her hand goes up into the air.

"Yes Miss Malfoy?"

"Gillyweed. If I recall correctly, Harry Potter made excellent use of it in the Triwizard Tournament. It's all on page 328 of the latest edition of _Hogwarts, A History_." A nod and ten more points. The Gryffindors can't possibly begrudge her, poor noble Slytherin, while he own Housemates are beginning to realize that maybe the half-blood Malfoy may not be a bad addition to their House. If they only knew. And through this all, only Longbottom has made the connection she wanted him to make.

As the class lets out, Longbottom pulls her aside.

"I was very impressed with your performance today. Have you gone on and read all the textbooks already?"

_Good Heavens no. _"I'm sorry Professor, it was all just so exciting. I couldn't resist."

There's a sad smile on his face now. "Your mother did that too. She helped me a lot when I was a student here."

"Oh yes, Mum," she sighs a bit, just for effect.

"Miss Malfoy, Rose, I've already said this to your brother and I know that it isn't really my place, but if you feel the need to talk about…the situation…my door will always be open to you."

She forces out a strangled sob and shoves her face into his robes, shaking furiously. He's very stiff for a second, and then, reacting on instinct, he holds her tight in a fatherly way and strokes her hair.

- - -

Finally the package from Grand Father has arrived. The box, which came by his best owl over breakfast is calling to her from the bottom of the bag. It has taken tremendous effort on her part to keep from opening it, but with just a few more steps she's in the sanctity of her shared rooms and she can contain her excitement no longer. She pulls the parcel out of her bag, calling the attentions of her roommate—the Zambini Girl, named, oddly enough after her father. Without regard for the paper, she tears it all off and finally opens the box—inside it is an elegant vermillion jewel box which certainly catches Blaise's eye. With baited breath she opens the box to reveal Grand Father's breathtaking gift—a diamond necklace. It's a snake to coil around her neck. It's surely Goblin-made. It's precious. Blaise is all a flutter now, oohing and ahhing over the gift.

Ignoring her roommate's vapid adoration of Grand Father's gift, she puts it on and looks in the mirror. She had to admit that it is really a remarkable gem and that it goes very well with her, though of course the outfit doesn't match. Gingerly she takes it off and coils the diamond snake onto her hand. She reaches for her wand and presses the tip to the snake's mouth, as if though her wand were kissing it, and whispers, "I love you, too, Grand Father."

It's an old game they have—a secret game they play, just one of the many secrets that he has shared with her. The snake is gone now, replaces by a tattered book. Blaise seems like she's about to cry, but she knows the book for what it is, and couldn't be more excited. _Hogwarts, A History_, 3rd Edition. There are four remaining copies of the edition (only 500 copies were even printed!) and it's the only one she lacked to complete her collection. The book itself must have cost a fortune (more than the silly gaudy necklace) in blackmail and bribes. She takes out her ink to write Grand Father and thank him. And once that lovely task is done, she cuddles up with her newest book to read late into the night because she's already done all her coursework.

**Author's Notes: **So, I have failed to write the coherent chapter I had promised, but I couldn't help it. I actually like Rose quite a lot (hopefully you will too, please let me know if she's a Mary-Sue). I'm kinda going for an evil Hermione. Maybe what Hermione and CoS!-Lucius' lovechild might be like… I'm sorry however if her mind isn't the most interesting to be in. She's not confused or afraid, or particularly distraught. Just cold and calculating. Not really sure what to make of her relationship with Lucius yet, but I think I'm leaning towards making her the apple of his eye and having him be the only person she really genuinely loves. Hints and concrit would be helpful here to gauge what you guys want.

And I've decided that the male Blaise has a daughter named Blaise as well. It's funny in my head…

**Reviews **would be most welcome.


	6. Chapter 6: Prologue

**Title: **And All the King's Horses  
**Genre: **Mystery, Angst  
**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione  
**Rating: **T

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. This work is for fun, not profit.

**Warning: **Remember all of those things I mentioned at the beginning? Torture, rape, general nastiness? I meant it. Nothing overly graphic in this chapter, but very bad things happen.

**Summary:** After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.

**Author's Notes: **I told some of you lovely reviewers (and I do love all of you, dearly) that I would update something coherent, I meant it. But then, as I was getting to bed, this image seized me. And yes, this is a prologue (there may be more to follow and they will probably also be in the past sense--this story is not exactly being told in strict chronological order).

**Chapter Six  
Prologue: In which we see that which came before  
**

When they snapped her wand, she fought back tooth and nail.  
When they tied her arms and legs, she screamed with all her might.  
When her throat was raw and her voice was gone, she cried and cried.  
When she had cried and cried and had no more tears to shed, she trembled silently.

It wasn't until she kissed him back and spread her legs for him that they had won.

**Author's Notes: **I know this is a really, really, really short chapter, it's only 71 words, and maybe not even the best 71 words... BUT, this is an important snippet, and I would absolutely adore to hear your reviews. It makes me incredibly sad when I see that people aren't reviewing, and it makes me incredibly happy when people do review. Be good ickle utilitarians and increase the happiness in the world. Pwitty pweese wit a chewwy on top?

Also, lemme know if I should up the rating. Thanks.


	7. Chapter 7

**Title: **And All the King's Horses  
**Genre: **Mystery, Angst  
**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione  
**Rating: **T

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. This work is for fun, not profit.

**Summary:** After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.

**Author's Notes:** Special thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter. I'm not allowed to address you by name here, but you know who you are. It really means a lot to me. Also, to clarify, the last chapter could have also been titled "In which a young bride enjoys her honey moon"...

**Chapter Seven  
In which two meetings with old men do not go as the Minister of Magic would have liked**

He has decided that he will no longer allow himself to be intimidated. On this point he will stand firm. He will not move. He will not budge. He can not. He ought not. He is after all, a Gryffindor, and Gryffindors stand by what is good and right and noble, and this is neither good nor right nor noble; it is evil and wrong and vile, so he will put a stop to this. This is what he has prepared in form of an answer to the old man. When the old man comes however, he finds that his resolve, or at least part of it, is gone. What was supposed to be a valiant declaration of his principles and a refutation of evil comes out instead as a weak, bureaucratic denial. It is no stronger than a simple no stamped on a form.

"I'm sorry," he says, slowly and weakly, "but no exception can be made in this case. If we were to allow an annulment due to magical malady it would set a dangerous precedent. It would be an incentive for witches and wizards in unhappy matrimony to curse their spouses. The Ministry of Magic is very clear on the point that marriage is binding until death. Even a sentence to life imprisonment in Azkaban does not change this fact."

The old man smiles. "Yes, yes, I had expected something of that sort; you have always been a stickler for rules, haven't you? And it's often helped me in the past, hasn't it Minister? It needn't be an impediment to our future friendship. I've been reading the marriage laws—all that is required to grant an exception would be a two thirds majority vote. I'm certain that a third is already sympathetic to my case, another sixth can easily be brought to reason, and all that I would need from you would be your support. There's a good contingent of people who could easily be swayed by your opinion on the matter." He punctuates the sentence with another smile. It is deep and venomous.

"I'm afraid I've already told you my opinion on the matter." He will not budge. He can not. He ought not.

"Really," the old man says disinterestedly. "And what would it take to change your mind?" He pulls out a checkbook.

"I won't accept a bribe on the matter." He is trying to be stern. Trying to keep a stiff upper lip. Trying to show this insidious snake that he will no longer be intimidated. Trying to cover up the slight shaking on his right hand.

"A bribe? Minister, you insult me. Perish the thought, I would never think of bribing any member of the Ministry of Magic. It's a campaign contribution—isn't that what we've called them in the past?"

"No. No. No."

"What do you want?"

"Nothing. I won't do it."

"Publicity and good PR is getting expensive these days. Double last time?"

"Mr. Malfoy, I already told you—

"I see, you need triple, very well, anything to help a good keep a good Minister in office."

"Nothing. You could give me your entire fortune and I would not change my mind."

"Really?" The old man asks. He is still smiling. "How very…principled of you. How very…_Gryffindor._ You know, Peter Petigrew was a Gryffindor too."

He almost chokes. He can feel the color draining from his cheeks. "I am nothing like that vile rat!" He cries in outrage. Outrage because only outrage is strong enough to drown out the internal accusations.

"Oh, I never said that you were. I was simply making an observation. I could just as easily have said, 'You know, Harry Potter was a Gryffindor,' or 'Hermione Granger was a Gryffindor,' or even, 'Ron Weasley.'" The last name drifts off into oblivion. "Please take no offense my dear Minister. After all, Peter Petigrew sold his best friend and his wife to the Dark Lord. Have you sold anyone? Even if you had, the Dark Lord is long gone."

He still feels outrage, but it is such a strong emotion, it's beginning to wash over him and then away from him, leaving him drained. He brings his head to the bridge of his nose. He's not certain whether or not he has a headache or whether he just wants Malfoy to leave.

"Oh, I see that you are not well Minister—you ought to have told me, I wouldn't have bothered you if I had known. I see now why you have not been as agreeable as you might have been." He looks up to see the old man pick up his walking stick (or is it finally a cane?) and gets up to leave. He is so relieved to see the vile man, the unspeakable man, leave and waits with bated breath for the moment when the vicious, vile presence will leave him alone in his office. He knows it's too good to be true. Lucius Malfoy never abandons his prey if he can help it.

It is too good, at the very last minute with his hand on the doorknob the old man turns. "Oh Minister, I almost forgot; all business aside, I wanted to invite you over to the Manor for Christmas Dinner. I expect to come into a good deal of cashflow soon and it ought to be particularly spectacular this year."

"Oh?" he answers stupidly.

"Yes, you see, I'm planning on selling a sizable chunk of stock. It was very promising stock when I bought it—a difficult task, but easy enough. Gringotts was doing the IPO and my family is an old and valued client so they were quite willing to help with the transaction. A marvelous little investment, to be sure—I've made a good amount of gold in the transaction, but I'm afraid I no longer have any room for such immature trivialities in my portfolio. A pity about the company though. Scorpius does tell me very often how much he enjoys their products—very practical. Clever enough I suppose as well. I'm not really sure what will happen to the stock price when I drop all my stock on the market. Oh well, I suppose that's business. Rose will just have to make due with her own ingenuity when it comes to pranks."

"Wait," he stops the man. "How much?"

"More than a quarter, less than half. Enough to force them into bankruptcy, like they ought to be."

His eyes go wide. He calculates his options and realizes with despair that he has no option. He simply smiles sadly and answers Lucius Malfoy—"Yes, of course I would be glad to attend Christmas dinner, but there's no need for something fancy; I'm quite accustomed to regular fare and it might be nice to have something homey now that Draco is so desolate. It really is a pity about your daughter-in-law, but thinking about it, it's hardly fair to saddle your son with a ghost of a bride—I'll reflect on the matter further." The words gush out of his mouth, burning him a little bit. They slur together. Malfoy has won of course, because Malfoy always wins. Malfoy knows he's won, because he always wins and leaves, a genuine smile on his lips for the first time that day.

Now he is alone in his office. He mustn't blame himself, he thinks. It really isn't his fault. It can't be his fault. What other choice did he have? Lead his brothers into bankruptcy. It's not his fault. It isn't. It can't be. Because he's a Gryffindor. It isn't his fault his father disowned him. It isn't his fault Hermione Granger is in St. Mungo's. It isnt' his fault his mother won't look him in the eyes. It isn't his fault Ron is in Azkaban. It isn't his fault that his brothers all refuse to let him meet their children. It isn't his fault that Harry Potter remains incurably insane.

_So this is it. This is the fruit of his toils. Finally, after all these years, after all the effort, after all the sacrifice, he's here. He's finally the Minister of Magic. Fred and George can tease all they want, but he knew what was necessary. He did what was necessary. And look at how well it paid off. And look at the room! His father could never dream of an office like this. The desk itself is monumental. He sits behind it for the first time and feels giddy with excitement. Like a child at Christmastime he goes through the contents of each drawer. It's all stocked with all the supplies he could ever want. There's a note too. "Congratulations! Looking forward to our further collaboration in the interests of Wizardkind. –L.M." Green ink…_

_Suddenly there's a knock at the door. He almost jumps like a child surprised in his father's study (but this isn't his father's study, no it isn't; it's his study, his, because he deserves it. Really he does. Think of the sacrifice). He puts the note away, he'll have to answer it later. He won't enjoy the task of course, but that's politics. Sometimes one has to do things that are unappealing. For the greater good._

_He sits up straight and tries to look powerful. "Come in," he orders, swelling with pride like a peacock._

_The door opens. It's the Old Man. He smiles. He gets up. "Come in, come in," he offers excitedly._

_"I suppose congratulations are in order…" the Old Man offers up, less than enthusiastically, but he has enough enthusiasm for a small army. He offers him a cigar, which is declined. No matter, he proceeds to show the Old Man around the office._

_"Yes, yes, I've been here many times before." Can't the Old Man muster up some enthusiasm. He's just become the Minister of Magic. The blooming blinking Minister of bloody Magic!"_

_"Well, anyway," he starts rattling the words off a mile a minute, "I've been thinking, and you've been working here all your life, and maybe it's a bit premature to use my influence like this so soon, but I think if one inspects your record of faithful service and your role in the Wars that it would be totally justifiable to give you a good decent promotion like you've deserved for years. You could finally move Mother and the rest out of that hovel you call a home—_

_"I…have never considered the Burrow a…hovel, and it is home. Your moth—Mrs. Weasley and I are quite content to live out the rest of our lives in the house where our children were born."_

_"Well, I was only saying," it's a quick save, "that you could _afford _to do it if you wanted to."_

_"Actually," the Old Man pulls a crumpled letter out of his coat pocket and hands it over to him, "I'm giving notice."_

_He takes the letter and reads it, crumpling into his majestic Minister of Magic chair._

_"I have long been very proud of my work with the Ministry of Magic, but I cannot and will not ever again work for a Minister as clearly in Lucius Malfoy's pocket as you are. My loyal sons have offered me a position at their joke shop and though I am unduly unsuited for the work and nepotism of this sort is highly embarrassing, but I think it is for the best." The Old Man turns to leave, and at the very last minute with his hand on the doorknob the Old Man turns. "Minister Weasley, best of luck."_

_And now he is alone in his office. His great, majestic, empty office. He mustn't blame himself, he thinks. It really isn't his fault. It can't be his fault. What other choice did he have? His Father, his Old Man doesn't understand. That is why the Old Man will never have an office like this one. A large, respectable office with a beautiful secretary. His Old Man doesn't understand—it's politics. Sometimes one has to do things that are unappealing. For the greater good._

_It isn't his fault at any rate. He has nothing of which to be ashamed. He'll be damned if he'll let himself be condemned for making important political alliances. He opens his drawer and withdraws a quill and a note card and begins to write to Lucius Malfoy._

**Author's Notes: **Well, here's a really long chapter to make up for the really short last one. IPO is short for initial public offering—it's when a company first sells its stock to public investors. Lucius Malfoy has taken the precaution of owning a good chunk of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes through Gringotts. I have to say that I kind of borrowed this scenario from a story called something like "Lust over Pendle." It was a surprisingly good Neville/Draco story in which Neville's grandmother threatened to destroy the Daily Prophet by dropping a sizable chunk of stock on the market. And don't ask me why I'm oddly obsessed with the idea of LM and AW as interchangeable father figures for a very confused Percy Weasley. On the whole this chapter was a lot less emo than I had originally planned. It doesn't have poor Percy contemplating suicide—yet at any rate.

Anyway, I've been updating this pretty regularly, but I'm going home for Christmas tomorrow and that will make matters more complicated. Of course, if there's an unusual show of support, or loud clamoring for an update, I might always be persuaded to acquiesce.

But yes, any and all **reviews** I receive would make me most happy. **Happy holidays!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Title: **And All the King's Horses  
**Genre: **Mystery, Angst  
**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione  
**Rating: **T

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. This work is for fun, not profit.

**Warning: **Remember all of those things I mentioned at the beginning? Torture, rape, general nastiness? I meant it. Nothing overly graphic in this chapter, but very bad things happen.

**Summary:** After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.

**Author's Notes: **Chapter's been done for a while, but I just got my internet access back. Happy New Year to all of you!

**Chapter Eight**

**In which a young Gryffindor is not in trouble and instead receives a gift**

He's only ever been in this office once. He can't help but feel slightly uneasy. The only other time he's been here he was in trouble. He almost never gets in trouble. He can't afford to get into trouble, a halfblood Malfoy in Gryffindor House—he's always walking on thin ice and so he's always quite certain to be delicate. Please the pure-bloods. Please the Gryffindors.

Please his Father. Please his Grandfather. Please Rose. Only Mother was always pleased with no effort. She was pleased just in his being, and now…

There's Professor Parkinson who does only the minimum to hide her contempt because she knows it would be unwise to antagonize the grandchild of Lucius Malfoy. Professor McGonagall, who like so many others does her very best to look anywhere but in his eyes. And then, of course, there is Professor Longbottom who _can't _ignore him. Professor Longbottom, who tries so hard, tries with all his strength, and fails not to hate him. Professor Longbottom, who clutches his wand and bites his lips because it _kills_ him to punish Weasleys for pranks pulled on a Mafoy. Professor Longbottom, who rarely has a kind word for him although he tries to treat all his students equitably.

Professor Longbottom, who now wanted to see him. Professor Longbottom, whose office this is. Professor Longbottom, who is nowhere to be seen.

He looks down at his wand. His long white fingers are curled around it, gripping it tightly. His knuckles are white, even in comparison with his fingers. Maybe he should have left the wand in his room. He's not quite sure what the rules are about bringing one's wand into a professor's office. It shouldn't be against the rulebook, but somehow, it seems disrespectful. He's never allowed to have his wand at the dinner table when Grandfather is around, which is almost always.

He looks down at his wand. Without it, he is afraid, the world might crumple underneath him. It's silly of course, since he distinctly remembers not having a wand, before. It's strange, he doesn't remember going to Ollivander's (though he knows his Father was the one to bring him, and he knows Ollivander has a habit of impressing young wizards with the history of their parents' wands and he knows that Ollivander gave him six wands to try before they settled on the one in his hands—but he doesn't _remember all that_). He does remember that for as long as he's had this little stick of wood (it's more than that, but it's also a twig—Grandfather would have him whipped if he heard him thinking such mugglish thoughts) he's looked at it as a source of strength. Before he had a rather large stuffed animal, a lion, oddly enough, a present from one of his mother's acquaintances. He would sleep with it and hug it tightly when thunder raged outside the manor.

Until, of course, the day that Grandfather found out about the lion, and then, more than thunder ever had, Grandfather raged and berated Father and Mother. Father sat silent, but for once Mother had stood, stood up to Grandfather. It had only lasted a day, a single day of open revolt against Grandfather, but in its own way, Mother's strange, unnecessary act had given him the courage not to cry as Grandfather had ripped his faithful lion to shreds. He had cried afterwards, but then he had done so quietly into his pillow in the dead of night in the privacy of his room.

His sobs however had not been so quiet that they hadn't called forth Mother. She had opened his door with a gentle _alohamora_ and glided delicately to his bed where she had joined him and begun to smother him in kisses and caresses until he had finally stopped his sobbing and turned to face her. He had found her holding the old lion, slightly worse for wear, but certainly a good deal better off than the fluff underneath Grandfather's feet.

"But how?" he had asked and she had smiled (she always smiled more at night time, when it was just the two of them in his room).

"Magic." And then, for a second, she had stopped smiling. "But, Grandfather can't know, do you understand?" He had nodded, and then she had taken out her wand—that precious instrument so rarely seen, and pressed it to the lion and uttered an incantation he hadn't understood. The lion had transformed into a phoenix-feather quill and kept him company ever after. Even now, he writes out all his exams with the quill. Right now it's in his bag. But he can't very well clutch the quill for support. So instead he clutches the wand.

He looks down at his wand. Suddenly it occurs to him that now that he's a Fifth Year at Hogwarts and that he could retransfigure the quill into the lion. He almost does it too, because he's so anxious waiting for Professor Longbottom in this office filled with warm red and gold (so different from the cool regal tones of his Grandfather's study) that he almost undoes his Mother's spell and unearths her quiet act of defiance.

But he doesn't. He gets as far as reaching into his bag to pull the phoenix quill out when Professor Longbottom comes into the office.

"I'm very sorry to be late Mr. Malfoy," comes the voice. "I ran into a bit of trouble on the way here, but nothing that can't be worked out over detention."

"It's no problem at all," he answers meekly. What is he supposed to say to a professor, even if he is a Malfoy? Then, because he really isn't sure, he asks, "I'm not in any trouble am I? Because my Mother isn't in any state to come deal with me, and Father isn't doing particularly better, and please don't call my Grandfather up."

There's a strange look in his professor's eyes, one which he ought to be able to read, but which he can't quite read. "What makes you think that you might be in trouble Mr. Malfoy? Have you done something that might get you into trouble?"

He shakes his head—"No, it's just, the last time I was here in this office I was almost expelled. Mother had to come up to Hogwarts…"

_He can't help but feel uneasy. He's never been in this office before, and now he's in trouble. He never gets into trouble. He can't afford to get into trouble, a halfblood Malfoy in Gryffindor House. He's always on thin ice, trying to please everyone, but it's so incredibly difficult to be in Gryffindor and please everyone—especially when half the house is made up of Weasleys. Then there's Father, and even worse, Grandfather. He should have begged the hat to put him in Slytherin (he was a Malfoy after all) or Ravenclaw (surely he was clever enough), or even Hufflepuff (at least then Grandfather would have been able to disown him outright, instead of simply snarling every time he walks past). Only Mother was pleased with his placement in Gryffindor House. Only Mother had sent him a long loving letter telling him how much he would enjoy his stay at Hogwarts. Lies, all lies, Hogwarts is an awful place, but they were encouraging lies. Mother had even gone as far so as to buy him the new broom he had wanted, the new broom Father had refused to buy him because it might benefit the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Mother had—_

_Mother has just walked in the door. He feels the blood draining from his face. Mother can't be here—Mother can't be the one Professor Longbottom called in. He should have called in Father, Hell, even Grandfather would have been preferable. Father would have been angry, Grandfather positively livid, but Mother, Mother is sad, sadder, and can he see a touch of disappointment in her lovely eyes? Father's anger, Grandfather's wrath, both so much more dangerous than porcelain Mother, and both infinitely preferable to Mother's sorrow._

_Professor Longbottom enters immediately after her and offers her a seat. It's a cold courteous gesture; despite the fact that Professor Longbottom rarely uses it, he can tell that Professor Longbottom learned the same etiquette his Father knows. She sits calmly and quietly, as she is told. She doesn't look at him. Professor Longbottom starts to talk. Mother listens, like she always does; she listens quietly and nods her head at all the right moments and she doesn't speak until Professor Longbottom is quite done. Even then, she simply asks a question._

_Finally the door opens again, and the Weasley cousins file in, followed by their fathers, the Weasley Twins. Professor Longbottom nods to them in greeting and offers them their chairs. The two redheaded men sit down besides Mother without the faintest acknowledgement._

_"Fred, George," Mother greats them. It isn't the friendliest greeting, but it's far from being Professor Longbottom's cool gesture._

_The Weasley Twins stare at her for a few seconds. He slips his hand to Mother, and she takes it. Her hand is cold. Finally the Weasley Twins open their mouths to great her, "M—" Mother tightens the grip on his hand. "—alfoy," the word comes out like cold basilisk venom, but still Mother's grip loosens and she starts to breathe again. Whatever she was expecting didn't come._

Professor Longbottom shakes his head, "I'm sorry about that Scorpius—Mr. Malfoy—that was hasty judgment on my part. But no, you are not in trouble this time; I simply wanted to see how you were doing."

"Fine," he answers, more out of habit than anything else. It's the easy answer. He isn't sure there are words to describe how he's feeling.

"I see," Professor Longbottom nods. "And your schoolwork, it isn't too much?"

Here he laughs, just a little honest laugh. "Too much? It isn't nearly enough" That's also the habitual answer. As much as Father would like to have him believe otherwise, he's certain that's something that comes from Mother. Now it's more the case than ever. He has too much free time to fill up, and these days he finds that he fills the extra time with less-than-pleasant thoughts.

Professor Longbottom smiles. This is perhaps the first time he's smiled at him. "That sounds like something your Mother would have said. Any other student, I'd assume that you were joking, but if you really do want more work, I'm certain I can arrange something. What would you like?"

"Oh, anything's fine. Mother wouldn't let me take all the classes I wanted anyway. Maybe a few feet more of essays?"

"There's a good reason your mother wouldn't let you take more courses than you're already takings, and if you want more essays, there's a prize contest in herbology which you could probably win, and another in potions, although Professor Parkinson is grading that one, so the prize is bound to go to Miss Nott."

"What's the reason?"

"Oh, surely you've noticed that Professor Parkinson plays favorites—it's something all Slytheirn Heads of House do. Professor Slughorn did so on a rather expanded scale, Professor Snape was terribly fond of your father, and terribly unfond of Harry Potter. Didn't like me particularly much either—I would have failed potions several times over, and possibly poisoned the class a few times if your mum hadn't helped me out."

"No, I meant about the course schedules, but, _Mother_ helped _you_ with potions?"

"I was dreadful and she was the cleverest witch in our year. So clever in fact that she decided to take every course Hogwarts offered in her third year—she even got a Time Turner so she could do it, which turned out to be really quite useful in the end, but she almost drove herself mad in the pro—

Professor Longbottom's face is suddenly without color. "I am so sorry Scorpius," he begins to plead, "I'm sorry, so sorry, I wasn't paying attention to what I was saying, oh God, me of all people, I should know better, God, I'm an idiot, I'm so sorry Scorpius—

"It's ok," he says. "I didn't know Mother was in your year."

"Yes. It was a magnificent year, not of course that any other year isn't magnificent, but really, there was something special: Harry Potter, Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley: the Golden Trio, and of course, Neville Longbottom who might as well have been a squib who got to tag along. You know, that first year, I won the House Cup for Gryffindor. Your mum and her friends had caught on to a very important plot to restore Voldemort to power; Harry got a ton of points for that, Ron beat McGonagall's giant chess board and got a ton of points for that too, and of course, Hermione, clever witch that she was, she was able to get past nasty Snape's potion trap and got a ton of points for that. But me, I stood up to the three of them because I didn't want them to lose any more points for Gryffindor: your mum just nicely immobilized me and I got ten points for my courage—just ten points needed to break the tie with Slytherin.

"And then, second year Ron Weasley's baby sister, God rest her soul, got her hands on Voldemort's diary—she didn't know it was his diary, Lu—an old Death Eater stuffed it in her cauldron and she was so lonely that she started talking to it—anyway, she got possessed and opened up the Chamber of Secrets which had a basilisk living inside of it. I never saw it, but it was supposed to be a really hideous monster; it petrified your mum, but she was the one who figured out what needed to be done."

"But wait, if she was petrified, how did she figure anything out?"

"She managed to do it before she got petrified and left Harry and Ron a note about it. The basilisk was moving through the pipes.

"Third year she helped Harry free Sirius Black from the dementor's kiss. Fourth year—you should have seen the fights that broke out over her in fourth year. Some idiots decided to revive the Triwizard Tournament—Viktor Krum, you know, the famous seeker was one of the champions; he had quite a thing for her. Fifth year she helped to organize Dumbledore's Army when the Ministry took over the school and stopped teaching us Defense Against the Dark Arts. She never finished her Hogwarts schooling however, oddly enough, mainly because after Dumbledore died she left with Harry Potter on some top-secret quest to bring down Lord Voldemort. It was successful, of course, but unfortunately Harry emerged from the conflict incurably insane."

Mother as a young clever witch, fighting Voldemort aside the great Harry Potter. He smiles at the idea. Improbable, though not impossible. He's never heard so much about Mother. He wants to know more.

"What about my Father?" he asks.

"Draco. He was in Slytherin."

"I know that; I'm the first Malfoy in twenty generations to not be in Slytherin. Was he gaga over my Mother in fourth year as well? Did he have terrific fits of jealousy over the fact that this Krum guy was so taken with her?"

There is a pause, after which Professor Longbottom nods. He smiles. He likes this image of Mother as a beautiful clever witch and of Father desperately in love with her. It's very charming. Infinitely preferable to what he now has to wake up to. A gloomy silence sets in.

Professor Longbottom breaks the silence: "I want you to know Scorpius, that if you ever need something, you can knock on my door. And don't hesitate to tell me if anyone is giving you a hard time. Especially the Weasley cousins. I've already told them, but if they—

"Professor Longbottom, I don't want to get preferential treatment just because Mother is… ill."

"I know Scorpius; but this isn't really preferential treatment. I'm afraid I've never really treated you fairly. I've spent all these years hating Snape, and now I find that I've treated you almost as poorly as he treated Harry all those years ago. I'm sorry to have to admit that I've been for too long blinded by your parentage and that I've let the Weasley cousins get away with far too much because of it. I'm not really offering preferential treatment because your mother is in St. Mungo's. No one ever gave me preferential treatment. But, it's taken this unfortunate tragedy for me to realize this. Your mother was kind to me; I ought to have been kind to her son."

And suddenly Professor Longbottom pulls a book out of his desk and hands it over to him.

"It sounds silly. I used to envy Harry Potter because his mother died. He never knew his parents—you know the story: Voldemort killed both James and Lily Potter the same night he tried and failed to murder Harry. Poor Harry was raised by his muggle aunt. In our third year, when Sirius Black broke out of Azkaban the Ministry forced dementors on Hogwarts and Harry had an awful reaction to them. In his first encounter he actually fainted; a number of Slytherins mocked him mercilessly for it; I envied him. You see, as the dementors forced him to relive the worst moment of his life, Harry could hear his mother's dying screams. Harry had a memory of his mother's voice, even if it was a horrid memory, it was still a memory.

"I had nothing of the sort. I had only faded photographs and an empty shell of a woman sitting in St. Mungo's who couldn't recognize me as her son. All that was tangible of my mother were these wrappers," Professor Longbottom opens a desk drawer and brings up a handful of gum wrappers. "It wasn't until years later, when no one could really envy poor Harry Potter, when we had to through his possessions and box them up that I came across a photo album of his parents. Hagrid had given it to him at the end of first year. I thought you might like to have one of your mum."

The weight of Neville Longbottom's words begins to sink into his skull. It occurs to him suddenly that he's never seen any photographs of Mother from before she married Father. Part of him is excited to discover his Mother the Girl, but for some reason he can't quite fathom, he is also distraught. Verging on panic. It takes a good deal of effort to get his hands on the book, and then to pull open the cover. He knows what he will find. He will find the face of the woman he loves before she was a woman. He will find the face of the boy who saved the world before he went mad. If he is lucky, he might find the face of the boy who would become his father. He will certainly find the face, many times over, of the man who has haunted his nightmares, the man whom he visited in Azkaban just a few days ago. He will find that face in all its youthful splendor, before the hair dulled and the eyes sank, before the flesh greyed and the soul blackened. If he opens the book he will see the face of the boy who would become the man who would torture his Father.

But, he will also see the smiling face of his Mother. He opens the book and what he finds first is more shocking than anything he had imagined. In that first photograph Mother is not flanked by Harry and Ron, as one might have expected. Instead, she is sitting by herself on a couch in the Gryffindor common room (it has not changed). She is quite unaware of the camera, all her attention devoured by a book. Most shocking of all, she is laughing. Laughing loudly, he can tell even if the photograph is muted, she is laughing in a way which is completely undignified, in a way which would break porcelain. Laughing in a way he has never seen her laugh. It's too much for him; he shuts the book and thanks Professor Longbottom.

Professor Longbottom tells him that it's not problem at all. "If there's anything you need, just knock on my door, even if you just want to talk. And any time is fine too."

He thanks him again, takes the album in hand and gets up. He is almost to the door, when a thought strikes him and he turns to ask the question of Professor Longbottom.

"Professor, I was wondering if you've ever heard of the Marriage Law."

Longbottom's face goes completely white—all blood has left it. He drops the quill in his hand and looks up suddenly. Then down. "I think," he finally answers, "that that is a conversation for another day."


	9. Chapter 9

**Title: **And All the King's Horses  
**Genre: **Mystery, Angst  
**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione  
**Rating: **T

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. This work is for fun, not profit.

**Warning: **Remember all of those things I mentioned at the beginning? Torture, rape, general nastiness? I meant it. Nothing overly graphic in this chapter, but very bad things happen.

**Summary:** After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.

**Author's Notes: **Hang on, it's going to be a bumpy ride.

**Chapter Nine**

**In which the rain won't stop. **

It's raining outside. It's always raining outside. He wishes it would stop. It feels like it's been raining for years. Rain, rain, go away… Of course, that's silly, it can't just rain for years and years and years. It's just these exams he has to study for. So many exams, when really he should be out facing Voldemort. Or riding his broom. Quidditch. He wants to go outside and fly his broom, but he can't—it's raining. When has that ever stopped him? A little rain stop him from quidditch? That can't possibly be right. Not right at all. So what's stopping him? Oh yes, studying for exams. But where are his books? Books, books, books, books, books…

Where are his books? Don't they understand that he _needs _them? There's so much knowledge in the world, how is he ever supposed to learn everything that he needs to learn if they won't let him read? That idiot fool Dumbledore won't let him read the books he needs. Doesn't matter. He'll figure out a way of sidestepping the old coot. Bastard. Doesn't he understand that he needs those books? He _needs_ them. He needs to learn all the magic, all the wonderful, beautiful, strong, enticing, delicious magic he can. And how is he supposed to do that without those books? The useless faculty won't teach him, not even the Slug. So he needs the books. He needs the books. But they won't let him go to the library because it's raining outside. Has anyone ever heard such a ridiculous excuse? He can't go to the library because it's raining outside. It's not like he's going to sit outside by the lake and read them there. And what if he did? Any first year could cast a spell to keep the books dry. He's not a first year… What do they think he is? A _muggle_? He's not a muggle… He has every right to those books.

Where are they? He can't find the books and if he can't find the books then he won't be able to study for exams and he'll fail them all, and then he'll have to leave school and go live with the Dursleys and what's worse, Hermione will scold him for all the time to come. Maybe he should ask Hermione to borrow her books. Yes, yes, that is what he will do. He will ask Hermione to borrow her books. It's not like she needs them anyway. She's probably read them all…twice. Although, she'll probably be mad. Maybe he should ask Ron instead. But where is Ron? That's a strange question. It feels like he hasn't seen Ron in forever. But that's silly.

Nothing is ever silly. The professors all think he and his questions are silly. Well let them think he's silly. Everyone will learn soon enough.

Where's Hermione? She hasn't come today. He can't remember where she is. Where she's gone. Wait. Wait. WAIT. Yes, yes, he can remember… just a little bit, it's hazy, but he can remember. Hermione and Ron. No wait. Hermione and Ron and Ron? Two Rons? That doesn't make any sense… Hermione and Fred and George. But where was Ron then? Hermione and Fred and George…and Malfoy? No. Malfoy wasn't there. How silly. A Malfoy in the Gryffindor common room. But, yes, Malfoy was there. Hermione was Malfoy. Right. That's preposterous. No, no, not preposterous… Fred and George said something about that, and then, and then, and then…

There's something missing. Yes, something missing. Something he didn't foresee. But what? Is it possible that he's overlooked something? Of course not. That's preposterous. He's planned every move. Every single last move, expertly played, because he is the greatest wizard that's ever lived. Greater than Dumbledore. Greater than Grindenwald. Greater than Dumbledore and Grindenwald combined. Greater than Merlin even. Yes, greater than Merlin. After all, Merlin died. Yes. Merlin died. But not he. He didn't die. No. He cannot die. Or is that wrong. Can he die? Has he died? He's not dead. He can't be dead. He cannot die. But… maybe, what if he's wrong. No. No. No. No. No. No. NO!

His head hurts. His head hurts so much. It's like his head is breaking. He's never felt such pain before. And the rain. The rain won't stop. It's making his head hurt worse. And that's when the screaming starts up again.

**Author's Notes: **Short chapter, but it gave me a headache to write it. Kudos to you if you can figure out what the devil is going on. If you can't, well then you're in the same boat as the character(s) in this chapter. Reviews are always lovely.


	10. Chapter 10

**Title: **And All the King's Horses  
**Genre: **Mystery, Angst  
**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione  
**Rating: **T

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. This work is for fun, not profit.

**Warning: **Remember all of those things I mentioned at the beginning? Torture, rape, general nastiness? I meant it. Nothing overly graphic in this chapter, but very bad things happen.

**Summary:** After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.

**Author's Notes: **Not sure what to think of this one...

**Chapter Ten**

**In which there is a party at Malfoy Manor  
**

She's seen photographs of the mirror of course. News of the auction has been in all the journals all week long.

It's not just that. She remembers hearing about the mirror. They looked into it once. They. Harry and… well never mind. That was a lifetime ago.

Her husband has bought the mirror. Messrs. Weasley and Weasley of course put up quite a fight for it. She wonders what they wanted it for. Probably nothing. They didn't want it. They only wanted to spite her and her husband, and really why shouldn't they? They hate her.

Now everyone is crowding into the great hall in the Manor. Her husband's got the room all prepared for the great midsummer masque and the mirror is this year's great attraction. His idea of course. She doesn't have ideas. Not anymore. Why would she want them? There's no point to thinking. That's what Lucius is around for. Let him do the thinking. Let her close her eyes and feel her mind go numb. It's better not to think.

It's impossible not to think however. Impossible. So difficult. Why, just in that last stretch of mind there are dozens upon dozens of tangential thoughts and she's had to suppress them all. Like thinking about the fact that she's now on first name terms with the Malfoy patriarch. Or the fact that compared to him Voldemort seems like a nice man.

She'd like to meet Voldemort. Unfortunately he's dead. Voldemort was nice in a way. He made everything either black or white. There was Voldemort. He had his Death Eaters. Same camp. All of them bloody murders. There was Harry. He had the Order and his friends. All of them selfless heroes. Black and white. Either/Or. So easy to distinguish. She misses Voldemort. Some days she wishes he had won. Harry'd be dead of course, and that would be an improvement. She would probably be dead too. Also an improvement. And Ron? Who knows? Who cares? She mustn't think about Ron. Lucius would be happy. Narcissa would be alive. If Lucius were happy, well maybe then he wouldn't bother her. Yes, that would be nice. She'd be dead of course. Yes that would be nice.

Nice. Yes, black and white are so nice. She's taken up reading math books. They're particularly nice. Either right or wrong. That last book that Scorpius bought her, wonderful, delightful, beautiful Scorpius, her darling baby, is nice. _Philosophiæ Naturalis Principia Mathematica_. Soothing. Thinking about those things keeps her mind off of other things. Darling Scorpius. Such a thoughtful child. A blessing.

"Mum," her favorite word in the world when it comes out of his lips, "Mum, Dad's going to unveil the mirror. Everyone's gathered in the Hall. Come, come," and he takes her hand and leads her there.

Her husband is already standing there, his hands on the canvas. "Darling, will you do the honors?"

She nods and joins him by his side, hands on the canvas, they pull.

He comes to her, slips his arm around her waist and kisses her. "Do you want the first glance?" He asks.

She smiles. It's a part to play. "I already know what I'll see in the mirror darling," she lies. It's a part to play. She smiles and kisses him. It's a part to play.

Her husband smiles and kisses her. "Indeed," he says, "I suppose I know what I'll see too. Let's defer to seniority, Father?"

Lucius looks up, smiles and nods. He gets up, leaning on his walking stick more than he has before and walks to the mirror. The room is silent, all eyes transfixed on Lucius Malfoy as he looks into the mirror that will show him his heart's true desire. She doesn't want to know what it is. Doesn't want to know what Lucius Malfoy wants more than anything else in the world. Still her eyes are transfixed like everyone else's. Suddenly Lucius gasps. He seems to sink into his cane and brings his free fist to his mouth. His jaw is clenched. His hands are trembling. And then he smiles. It's a terrifying smile. Devoid of all wickedness. She thinks it's almost a kind smile. It makes him look like a young man. A young man in love. Except she doesn't know what young men in love look like anymore, and she's fairly certain that Lucius Malfoy can't feel love. He mustn't. Otherwise, what happens to her life of black and white? What happens if the most vile man she knows can feel love? Voldemort couldn't, that's what they say… That's what makes Voldemort so much better than Lucius. At least Voldemort didn't have any redeeming qualities.

Voldemort couldn't cry. Wouldn't cry. He certainly wouldn't hold his hands up to a mirror with a look of desperate longing. Lucius Malfoy shouldn't either. A man like that shouldn't be able to feel anything other than cruel joy. But he can, and he's feeling pain and beatitude all at once, and it's driving her insane and all she can do is smile because that's her part to play.

Tears are streaming down his cheeks now, tears of joy because he is seeing that which he wants most in the world, and tears of sorrow because he knows that he cannot have it. All eyes are fixed on him; the most powerful man in wizardom is laid bare before his cohorts, and for the first time in his life he can't be moved to care, and it's really driving her quite mad.

Rose interrupts, walking up to Lucius and asking him the question everyone else is wondering, except her, because she already knows the one thing in the world that makes Lucius Malfoy a human being rather than a monster. "Narcissa," he gasps, and Rose leads the old man away from the mirror.

The guests follow. Some of them give cries of joy, others break into tears. All are laid bare and broken, and she really couldn't care less. Rose's turn comes, near the end, and she just smiles, gazes into the mirror contentedly, and finally pulls herself away and joins Lucius. "What did you see princess?" he asks her, inviting her upon his lap and she hugs and kisses the man, so sweetly, and announces for all to hear: "_Hogwarts a History_, Third Edition."

"Aren't you ambitious, darling?" the old man answers. It's driving her insane, because he loves her daughter so completely, and a man like that shouldn't be capable of love. She misses Voldemort.

Scorpius wants to be Head Boy. She smiles sadly because she knows why he wants it, and she knows he won't get it, and it isn't at all his fault.

Then Draco, her husband, who simply smiles at the mirror and turns to her and tells her he doesn't need a silly looking glass to tell him he wants _her_. Another kiss, another smile, and then it's her turn.

It doesn't matter what she sees however, because she knows what she must answer. She must tell them that she is the happiest woman in the world, and maybe that's what she'll see, herself as the happiest woman in the world…

She braces herself for whatever impossible dream will come, takes a breath and looks into the mirror. She gasps, momentarily caught unaware by the beauty of the sight before her. The first thing she notices is the red, so much red, such beautiful red, so much prettier than the vile green her husbands cherish. It takes a moment for her brain to register what the red really is, but that's to be expected, because she's worked long and hard at training herself not to think. But then it hits her, and she realizes for the first thing that she is gazing upon a monstrous thing. It isn't Harry Potter smiling and sane. It isn't Ron out of Azkaban. It isn't even Scorpius finally happy and comfortable in his skin.

It's that vile man, surrounded by red. She's lived through a war and she doesn't think she's ever seen so much red. She doesn't think even Bellatrix Lestrange could ever dream up something like this. And in contrast to the red his face is white, so white. And finally, it really hits her, _this_ is what she wants most in the entire world; _this _is her heart's true desire. _This_ is what _he_ has made of her…

And that is when the screaming started.

**Author's Notes: **Reviews are always lovely.


	11. Chapter 11

**Title: **And All the King's Horses  
**Genre: **Mystery, Angst  
**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione  
**Rating: **T

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. This work is for fun, not profit.

**Summary:** After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.

**Author's Notes: **In my mind this is the beginning of Part II.

**Chapter Eleven**

**In which two brothers don't laugh. **

They aren't quite sure how they ought to feel. One thinks they ought to feel happy—the Slut is getting her due. The other disagrees. The Bastard's getting away with it all. Then of course, the other is convinced, but not before the one has changed his mind, and so it goes. Each is thinking something different, but collectively, it's really all more of the same.

In the end the older hatred wins out. They agree. The Bastard is getting away with it all, like he always does, and this is something which ought always to be frowned upon. This leads to the next step in the discussion. Minister Sinister. That black sheep in their family tree. One comments that it seems out of character. This new law is breaking all the rules, and if there's one thing the black sheep loves—it's the rules. Then the other points out that Minister Sinister loves nothing at all, so why should the rules be any different?

The one remains unconvinced.

The other ventures forth another reason: the Bastard must have paid him off. How much? Thirty sickles? It's an old joke. Not nearly enough money, they're sure, but still—thirty sickles is an old joke, and a classic one at that. Surely details can be sacrificed for a good joke. Of course. That is the point of their life's work. A good joke. Except that this one isn't funny. It never was. Of course, thirty sickles are never funny. So it's not really a good joke. It's not really a joke at all. But they say it is, and they laugh about it, because really, what's life without a laugh? And besides, if they don't laugh, then they'll cry, and well, there's been enough tears shed in their family. So no more tears. Just laughter, even though it isn't funny.

Of course, Minister Sinister doesn't know that. They make a point of laughing about it, the thirty sickles, to his face. It turns red of course, like it always had—amazing—years of working in the ministry and being in bed with Malfoys hasn't made him any more immune to their childish pranks. It almost makes them smile—the two of them together, because everything they do is together, like when they tried to bid up the mirror. Tried isn't the right word for it. Did. They did bid up the mirror.

And again, they don't know whether to be happy about that or not, because as much as they hate them—all of them, the Slut, the Bastard, the Tool, and Minister Sinister, they can't help but feel a little bit responsible, even guilty. _That _was supposed to be a prank. A real prank, not like the thirty sickles. _Look, we made the Tool spend fifty times what the mirror was worth_. Ha ha ha. Funny see. It wouldn't have been funny if they had actually bought the mirror. _Look, we didn't let the Tool buy the mirror he wanted._ Ha. See—there are fewer ha's.

Except there aren't any ha's now either way. It really isn't funny. Nothing is funny anymore.

**Edit: 95 hits on this chapter and one review. Is it really awful? I like it, but if it's bad, do let me know so i can FIX it. ****  
**

**Author's Notes: **Reviews are always lovely.

Also, I rather like this one. It's short, shorter than it felt when I was reading it. Also, this is weird because it's the first chapter I've done where there are two concurrent POVs, but the thing is that at this point in the story, it doesn't matter who's who, so long as you have an idea of who the two of them are. This will of course change. Also, this came off a bit more loopy than I had intended. I think it was the concurrent POVs, but also the lack of dialogue or action. But anyway, the main point of this was more exposition on the state of affairs and to advance Lucius' cause. Lemme know what you think.


	12. Chapter 12

**Title: **And All the King's Horses  
**Genre: **Mystery, Angst  
**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione  
**Rating: **T

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. This work is for fun, not profit.

**Summary:** After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.

**Author's Notes: **This was a lot more confusing than I expected it to be. The character is very excited. Also, she ended up being a good deal less sane than I had intended. I like it...

**Chapter Twelve**

**In which Rose Malfoy's potions prize paper is not read, and consequently, not graded. **

Durmstrang, or Beauxbatons? It is a rather difficult question. She's been thinking about it a lot recently, ever since that joyous article appeared in the _Prophet_. Beauxbatons or Durmstrang? A novel idea: both. Send one to Durmstrang, the other to Beautbatons. Yes. Yes. Except… Durmstrang is farther away. Much farther away. And colder she supposes. So she thinks that Durmstrang it will be. But, wait, does Durmstrang take girls? She can't quite recall. That could be a problem. But in any case, the boy will go to Durmstrang. If they won't take the girl, well, Beauxbatons will do. Or maybe she can even stay at Hogwarts. Afterall, once the transaction is complete, she won't have to work at this miserable school anymore, and so maybe Hogwarts will be far away enough. And besides, the girl is still young enough to mold. Yes. She and the girl can become great friends, and when the girl grows up, she will marry and change her name and leave the name all to her. So it's not imperative that the girl leave Hogwarts. Except, how can she ever be friends, or even pretend to be friends, with such a disgusting little half-blood brat, especially one that looks like _that_. So Beauxbatons it will be. Unless of course, Durmstrang takes girls. Then it can be Durmstrang, and with any luck the boy will catch his death of cold (and luck can always be brewed, she knows), and the girl will be swept off her feet by some wizard there, and neither will ever be heard from again.

But for all of this to work, she has to remember: does Durmstrang take girls? It's hopeless. She doesn't know, so she takes a quill to parchment and starts to write an old friend, before she realizes it would be unfair to send him the children. So maybe she will send them to Beauxbatons after all, because really, France is far away enough and what fault does poor old Viktor have? Although, then again, Viktor always did have very queer tastes. Perhaps he could find in the daughter what he lost in the mother. Then they could both have their happily ever after. But of course, it all depends on whether Durmstrang takes girls, and really for the life of her, she can't remember. So she takes the quill to parchment and starts anew.

By the time she's done, it's time to go and meet with the gentleman. _Father-In-Law_. She likes the sound of that. She's never had one before, because she's always wanted him (even if she hates him, but once the children are out of the way, she's sure she can handle him too—there are potions for that sort of thing) and he was always taken. But no more. Because, she knows what this meeting is really about, and it's twenty years overdue. But better late than never. Yes indeed. Better late than never.

And then she realizes—she's late. She was suppose to grade the prize exams and get them back to the Old Hag. But, never mind, because she knows who's going to win, so really, there's no point to even reading them. So she doesn't. She just scribbles down a name and sets all the parchments aside, and only then does she notice the audacity of the little first-year brat. She laughs. The little first-year knows nothing, and presumes to know everything. So much like the mother. If it weren't so detestable, it could almost be cute. But, yes, she decides, Viktor will like her, and she'll send her to him, and with any luck, he'll wisk her away, and the winter snow (and a bottle of luck) will take care of the boy, and they'll all have they're happily ever afters.

Except of course for the Mudblood. But Mudbloods don't get happy endings—not in the good stories at any rate. Not in the stories she reads.

But before anything else can happen, she has to go and meet with the gentleman. _Father-In-Law_. Yes. She likes the sound of that.

**Author's Notes: **Please don't make me beg. It makes me very sad when I don't get reviews. If you enjoy this chapter, please tell me. You can do so in two words if you please. (Or even one.) If there's something I can improve upon, let me know that too.

Thanks.


	13. Chapter 13

**Title: **And All the King's Horses  
**Genre: **Mystery, Angst  
**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione  
**Rating: **T

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. This work is for fun, not profit.

**Summary:** After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.

**Author's Notes: **Sorry for the long wait. I was originally going to have another chapter, but I couldn't get the character to be believable. Also, it's been a sucky few weeks. On the plus side, I got to watch a real-live Quidditch match today. (Or technically, I guess right now it was yesterday...)

**Chapter Thirteen**

**In which a little garden snake sheds crocodile tears**

He's late to a faculty meeting when he hears crying coming from the girl's lavatory, and he's late, but surely Minerva will forgive him for being even later if it's for the sake of a student. Surely a homesick first year. Or a poor girl with a broken heart, or a muggle-born called something nasty, or a student fallen prey to the Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. It doesn't matter, because the students come first, like they always have. First before Pansy's cauldrons or his pots.

So even though he's late already and being later will mean he'll get last pick of the quidditch field practice times, he stops and walks to the bathroom and knocks on the door, once, twice, three times. The crying doesn't stop—he opens the door and declares that he's coming in. The crying stops. There's a clearing of a throat, and then a very polite tremor inviting him in which is very familiar, more familiar indeed than it should be, given that the girl is a first year.

Walking towards the stall where the girl is seated, his eyes land on a hastily repaired sink and he realizes where he is. Miracle of miracles, or maybe just dumb coincidence of dumb coincidences, it's certainly ironies of ironies. This is the bathroom where decades ago a bushy-haired know-it-all was discovered, crying her eyes out, by a troll only to be rescued by the boy who would rescue the world and his best friend. This is the bathroom where Harry and Ron and Hermione teamed up for the first time. Where the Golden Trio was born. And here is little Rose Malfoy, who looks so much like her mother and shakes her hand high in the air, knowing all the answers almost before he asks the questions, just like her mother, crying her eyes out as a first year as her mother did years ago.

"Rose?" his voice trembles, because that isn't the name he want to call out. But the name he wants to call out doesn't belong to the girl crying out her eyes, at least not anymore. Now it belongs to the ghost of the woman who makes him pity Harry Potter and Scorpius Malfoy because they have the screams of their mothers in their heads and all he has are faded photographs. The name of Hermione doesn't belong to the face of the girl he knew, but rather to the woman he only ever met cordially when there was no other choice. And now the face which has lived for so long in his mind and in his memory, in his soul and in his heart is no longer "Hermione," but rather, "Rose."

"Professor Longbottom?" the voice of the little girl trembles, and it brings him back to Hogwarts, back to earth, because at least the voice is different, and even if it weren't, he's not _Professor Longbottom_ to the other girl, no, never. To her he was _Neville_. Poor stupid, dense Neville, who always needed help with potions and had to be shoved out of the way, but yes, _Neville_.

"Rose, is everything OK?"

A pathetic sniff, which shouldn't ever be associated with the name Malfoy, even though he remembers that the girl's father also found himself crying in a Hogwarts lavatory once.

"Yes. Well, no. Professor, I'm not going to lie to you. Not everything is fine. Grand Father came to the castle today."

He nods, because he knows, and indeed, he had to meet with the old man. God knows how he got himself back on the Board of Governors after the whole story with Ginny. "Yes, I know, he was here for a Governors' meeting."

Another sniff. "Yes. But afterwards, he took me out to dinner, and then he met with Professor Parkinson; he said he wanted to talk to her as my Head of House."

That strikes him as strange. The eldest Malfoy hadn't invited Scorpius out to dinner, and he'd never met with him. But he just nods and smiles, indulgently, as if though it all makes perfect sense to him, because he's the adult in the situation, and he's the professor.

"Well, when Professor Parkinson got back from her meeting with Grand Father, she posted the results of the potions prize exam."

He nods again, because he's not entirely sure where this is going, but he doesn't want her to know that.

"Well, as you can imagine, I didn't win," she sniffs and shrugs as she looks up to him. And he smiles and kneels because now he knows what's going on, and he can help. He's the adult and the professor, and he knows what's happening, and he can help her. He can help Hermione's daughter.

"Oh, sweetie, the prize exams are meant for students in third year and beyond. Evangeline Nott's a seventh year."

Another sniff, "How did you know Evangeline wrote the prize wining essay?"

"Evangeline has won every year she's entered the essay contest. Professor Parkinson says she's a genius at potions. I wouldn't know. I was never any good at potions—you're mother spent her six years at Hogwarts trying to keep me from blowing myself up."

She wipes away her tears with her sleeve. It strikes him that it's a terribly mugglish thing to do, so he conjures her up a handkerchief, and she takes, it, sniffing, and dries her tears and blows her nose, and he can't help but think at how undignified the little Malfoy girl looks, and he smiles, because as far as he can tell, she really does take after her mother.

"I just wish I had known that before I spoke with Grand Father." It's a quiet little whisper and it makes him wonder at the power Lucius Malfoy can exert even after all these years and all his failures.

"Oh, I'm sure he'll understand." Of course he won't. He's Lucius Malfoy. A monster, who handed his own son over to the most vile wizard of the age. But he's also the girl's grandfather and he doesn't know what else to say.

"No. He can't know. Oh. I was so sure I had written a very good paper. I told him it was almost certain that I would win, and he'll expect me to. And if I were to go and tell him, I'm sure he'd go and fix it; he's such a kind Grand Father. Such a good man. He loves me very much you know. But, I wanted to actually win it. Not like with the Nimbus 2001s. So I can't tell him, because he'll be so disappointed, and after all he's been through, I don't think he can stand any more disappointment. But he'll find out eventually, when there isn't a prize to put on the mantle of his bedroom. You don't think he'd love me any less if I weren't perfect?"

Kind. Good. Loving. Who is this man this girl is talking about? The Lucius Malfoy he knows is cruel and wicked and vile. Has he changed? He doesn't think it's possible. It must be the adoring eyes of an innocent child. What a marvel that a child may stare at the face of a man like Lucius Malfoy and remain a child. He doesn't believe that Lucius Malfoy is capable of love. People who love don't send their children off to murder other children.

But, he can't tell that to Rose. Not any more than he can tell Scorpius that his parents' wedding was a sham—forced on his mother against her will by an idiotic law which was only ever applied once. Not any more than he can tell Scorpius that Draco Malfoy called Hermione Granger a muddblood. Not any more than he can tell Scorpius that Ronald Weasley tried to hex Draco Malfoy for Hermione's sake and ended up spitting out slugs.

He cannot tell these children that the men they love so much aren't men but monsters. Would they believe him? Unlikely. But even worse, they might. To take their gods and replace them with monsters would be almost as cruel as what Bellatrix did to him. So instead of telling Rose what he's thinking, he simply picks her up and puts his arms around her, noting uneasily that this is more comfort than he has ever offered Scorpius, more comfort than he has ever offered any student, and perhaps, even more comfort than he ought to offer any student. "I doubt your grandfather would love you less. But if you want, I can discuss the matter with him." And there it is, a bright smile from the girl who looks so much like the other girl who kept him alive all through Snape's torture. He closes his eyes for an instant and sees a tall blond man standing besides a gaunt old woman with winter in her hair and hatred in her eyes, and he can't help but shiver at the fact that he's just promised to meet with Lucius Malfoy. He walks the girl to her common room in the dungeons, already far too late. It won't be a good season for Gryffindor Quidditch. Minerva will eat him alive.

But then, in a final gesture of goodbye, the girl hugs him tightly, and smiles once again, and he can't help but think that it's all worth it. He'd face down Lucius Malfoy to see Hermione Granger smile like that again. At him.

First thing in the morning, he'll talk with Pansy.

**Author's Notes:** A thousand thanks to everyone who reviewed. If I haven't answered your review, you probably asked a really good question that I haven't found the answer to just yet. That, or you reviewed recently, and I haven't had the time. In any case, your reviews would be very much appreciated.


	14. Chapter 14

**Title: **And All the King's Horses  
**Genre: **Mystery, Angst  
**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione  
**Rating: **T

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. This work is for fun, not profit.

**Summary:** After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.

**Author's Notes: **Sorry for the long wait. I was originally going to have another chapter, but I couldn't get the character to be believable. Also, it's been a sucky few weeks. On the plus side, I got to watch a real-live Quidditch match today. (Or technically, I guess right now it was yesterday...)

**Chapter Fourteen**

**In which a house elf sweeps away some shards of broken glass.**

It's a well guarded secret, because it's illegal. He's read the law. He's not quite sure why wizards bothered to make it illegal, since most house elves really wouldn't care to learn to read. Reading is worse than wearing clothes. Reading is worse than earning wages. He can only think of one thing worse than reading, and that's having a wand. But wands are conspicuous, and not very useful. If for instance the old Master Malfoy—no, _ex_-Master Malfoy, even after all these years he still has to remind himself from time to time—saw him carrying a wand around (and those silly sticks really aren't worth the trouble goblins seem to thing they are), he would soon miss his head.

But on the other hand, if old ex-Master Malfoy catches him glancing at the _Daily Prophet_, well then, there's no harm in that. After all, house elves can't read. House elves don't want to read. House elves are too stupid to read.

Maybe most house elves are too stupid to learn to read. And maybe most muggleborns are worthless, and maybe most half-bloods are abominations, and maybe most pureblood wizards are entitled to lord over everyone else in the world. Maybe. Maybe there are a few exceptions to the rules.

Maybe it's just him who learned to read and use the first person pronoun to think of himself. Maybe it's just him who learned to conjugate verbs.

Maybe it's just Hermione Granger who was kind enough and brilliant enough to teach him. Maybe it's just Hermione Granger who was brave enough and strong enough to teach him behind Lucius Malfoy's back. Maybe it's just Hermione Granger who was powerful enough to scare Lucius Malfoy so badly that he'd be willing to give her his name and make her the mother of his heirs just to keep her under his thumb.

Maybe it's just Lily Evans who was kind enough and brilliant enough and brave enough and strong enough and powerful enough to defeat Voldemort.

Maybe it's just Harry Potter who was the fate of the wizarding world.

Maybe it's just Rose Malfoy who's worth anything to anyone.

And maybe it's just Bellatrix Lestrange and Tom Riddle and Lucius Malfoy who fought for the Darkness and lost.

But he thinks, that if everyone he knows is the exception to the rule, then maybe the rules aren't very good. Ockham's Razor. See? He's a house elf and he knows what Ockham's Razor is. He very seriously doubts that ex-Master Malfoy has ever heard of it. It is after all, a muggle construct. Miss Hermione taught him about it once.

So much the better for him. Ex-Master Malfoy doesn't know anything anymore. He doesn't realize it, but he's losing his touch. He doesn't realize that his old house elf is free of mind, body and soul. He doesn't realize that his old house elf has learned to read. He doesn't realize that his daughter-in-law taught a house elf to read. He doesn't realize that there's a reason why Hermione has only given the world two Malfoy heirs. He doesn't realize that there will be no more Malfoys after Rose and Scorpius, and he doesn't realize that if the name Malfoy can continue at all, it will be through the half-blood Gryffindor he holds in such low esteem.

But perhaps, worst of all, is the fact that he doesn't realize that he cares. He doesn't realize that his young ex-Master Malfoy spends his days with the decanter. Dobby realizes it. It is after all his job to refill the decanter. It could be done magically, but why bother, when there are stupid house elves around?

So Dobby sees how the decanter full in the morning is empty at night. Dobby hears the sound of shattering glass. It's Dobby's job to pick up the shards. Young ex-Master Malfoy used to do it. It only takes a word with a wand. But he stopped, and if Dobby didn't pick the shattered glass, young ex-Master Malfoy would walk all over it.

He's not sure why he cares.

That's not true. He's a clever elf. He learned to read and to keep quiet. He's smart enough to know better than to lie to himself. That's how one becomes like old ex-Master Malfoy. So, because he has to tell himself the truth, he does.

He hates young ex-Master Malfoy, no less than he hates old ex-Master Malfoy, no more than he hates young Miss Malfoy. Young ex-Master Malfoy hurt Hermione Granger, hurt Ron Weasley, hurt Harry Potter. But still he picks up the shards of glass from the carpet so that young ex-Master Malfoy won't walk all over them, because he knows that look in his eyes. He's seen it before, remembers it; it haunts his nights and days. He knows it's what leads young ex-Master Malfoy to the decanter every day, and he knows that the burning liquid in the decanter can only make things worse. He knows he can't save the young ex-Master. He couldn't save her, after all, and he loved her. But he can pick the glass up, that he can do. And he can wait. It's only a matter of time now, he knows.

He knows. He, stupid, senseless Dobby knows, and the Great Lucius Malfoy doesn't even begin to dream of it and it's going to come crashing down on him.

Will Dobby pull the glass out from under the naked feet of Lucius Malfoy? Not even Dobby knows. The question keeps him up at night. It's fine though. That keeps her broken eyes away. He picks up a book and begins to read.

**Author's Notes: **Dobby is like super omega Oh-Cee-Cee times ten to the n. I could not bring myself to write in House Elf Speak. I don't have any excuse, other than the fact that this Dobby is 20-some years older than Cannon!Dobby. This chapter could also be called "The quiet rebellion of Miss Hermione Granger."

Please, please, please review. Pretty please with sprinkles on top?


	15. Chapter 15

**Title: **And All the King's Horses  
**Genre: **Mystery, Angst  
**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione  
**Rating: **T

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. This work is for fun, not profit.

**Summary:** After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.

**Author's Notes: **No excuse for the wait. Sorry.

**Chapter Fifteen**

**In which a Malfoy and a Longbottom collaborate.  
**

The paper he has in his hands is brilliant of course. Much better than one could expect of a first year; even if that first year is none other than his darling Rose, it's hard to believe that she could have written it. There is of course a simple explanation for all that, which is of course the most obvious one: Rose Malfoy did not write the paper in his hands. He knows this. She knows this. He knows that she knows, and he is fairly certain that she knows that he knows. But of course none of that matters because Parkinson can't prove a thing, not if Rose has done the thing right (and he knows how clever she is), and the only existing copy of the original manuscript is shelved in his library along with the rest of old Sev's papers. All of this means of course, that Miss Parkinson (and he's quite certain to enunciate the ending essss sound of that maidenly missssss) has quite a lot of explaining to do, not only to him, but to Longbottom (who would ever think a Longbottom and a Malfoy would be united against a common enemy? If only old Bella were here to see it), the rest of the Board and even that old hag.

Playing favorites is an old Slytherin tradition. He can wish her no ill for that, not any more than Zambini would have been able to wish Severus ill for favoring Draco. But, and here is the crucial caveat, there is another old Slytherin tradition, which is of favoring Malfoys above the others (well, there is technically a hierarchy, but the six lines above the House of Malfoy are extinct, or will be very soon, and sooner still if he has anything to do with it). And for breaking that tradition, he can wish her ill.

"Professor Parkinson," the Old Hag thunders out, "did you even bother reading the prize exams?"

"Headmistress, I am offended that you would even think to ask such a question," Parkinson offers up as protest. It's a pathetic attempt to deflect the question, avoiding lying while lying. He wonders how this woman was even sorted into Slytherin.

"I am offended that I have to ask this question of one of my teachers," for once the Old Hag's shrill voice is music to his ears, "but the fact remains that the essay to which you awarded first place is mediocre at best. Miss Malfoy's paper is by far the best out of any."

"You're right, I'm sorry Headmistress, I should have reported Rose's essay; it's clearly impossible for a first year to have written something of the sort, but I refrained from reporting the incident out of my concern for the girl. I'm sure that her mother's illness must have altered the girl's judgment…"

He can hardly believe the words coming out of her mouth, so he raises a single finger, almost modestly, and takes control of the room, "Miss Parkinson, are you accusing my granddaughter of plagiarism? Because if that is the case, then I believe there are a number of measures at your disposal to confirm your hypothesis."

"It's more than a simple hypothesis! It's obvious; no first year could even understand what Rose claims that she wrote."

"Very well then, I give my permission for the proper spells to be cast. Rose does not need to be here; she can be tried in absentia after a matter of speaking, and if the tests show the slightest hint of foul play, I myself will enroll her in a muggle school before the week is out."

The Hag protests predictably, "I'm afraid that only the student's parent or legal guardian may authorize such a thing, and school rules dictate that the student in question must be present at all disciplinary meetings."

"I am afraid," he answers calmly, "that the girl's parents are indisposed at the moment. My daughter-in-law, as you all know is in an undiagnosed catatonic state in St. Mungo's, and Draco is taking it rather poorly. It would be most inopportune to bother him with trifles at a time like this. As for the girl, she has more important things to worry about than the ramblings of a third-rate hack trying to cover her laziness with unfounded accusations. Rose's first year at Hogwarts will be difficult enough; I do not want to ruin it further. Professor Longbottom, what do you think?"

And Longbottom answers on cue: "Rose is brilliant, like her mother, but I think she finds this all very distressing. I think Hermione would have died if she'd ever been accused of something like this."

The Old Hag looks uncertain, but finally she acquiesces. "We'll put it to a vote of the Board. All those in favor of examining Rose Malfoy's essay without her presence through Mr. Malfoy's permission and request, say 'aye.' " It's the same as if though she had just said yes; he has half the Board in one pocket, and the other half in another. "Very well," the Old Hag nods her head.

The first spell is the simplest. It checks for traces of a "copy-and-paste" charm. If their stupidity weren't so convenient, he'd be insulted. If a Malfoy is going to cheat, then a Malfoy is going to do it right. The spell confirms what he already knows. Rose wrote the paper out by hand.

The second spell is only slightly more complex. It cross-references the essay with all books in the Hogwarts library, and it is no more incriminating than the rest.

He himself suggest the third spell, which cross-references the essay with all the books in the Magical Index, and since he has a heavy stake in it, he knows what the answer will be.

There is only one more thing to try, and this is the dangerous one. But Rose is being tried in absentia, which means that they can't shove Veritaserum down her throat.

"Are we quite done?" he asks, lacing his voice with a dangerous variation of boredom.

The Hag nods. "I'm very sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Malfoy, and on behalf of the Board, I extend to you my deepest apologies. As for you, Pansy," the Hag's voice drips with ire, "you are henceforth relieved from your responsibilities. Please pack your bags and vacate your rooms before the clock strikes midnight."

He doesn't smile, because that wouldn't be very subtle. It's a trifle of a pleasure, and a petty one at that, but these days, any small triumph will do. It's all he can do to suppress his dark chuckle as he gets up and imagines the look on Miss Parkinson's face when he informs her that she will remain a miss for a long, long time.

**Author's Notes: **So it's not only a long time coming, but short as well. It's a very different feel from the last chapter, so take that as you will. As always, reviews make me very happy.


	16. Chapter 16: Prologue

**Title: **And All the King's Horses  
**Genre: **Mystery, Angst  
**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione  
**Rating: **T

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. This work is for fun, not profit.

**Summary:** After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.

**Author's Notes: **As should be obvious, this takes place well before the vast majority of these chapters. This one goes to Dieselwriter. Although, it really should have been a Scorpius chapter... Sorry.

**Chapter Sixteen  
****Prologue: In which a young man attempts to win his wife's affection**

"Please, no." She asks softly, her eyes are wet with tears, sunken into her face, and there's the light of begging in them. She's begging him to stop. She's begging. Proud, unspeakably proud, Granger—No, not Granger, not anymore—is _begging _him to _stop._

But he can't stop, not now, not while the magic is in place. It's ok, he doesn't want to stop. Doesn't need to stop. Father says its for the good. For the Greater Good. If he has to suffer through this, she should suffer too.

"No, please," she begs again. He wants to smirk and ask her if that's the best she can come up with. But it's wrong. Granger, smart, know-it-all Granger, reduced to two words. _No. Please. Please. No. _

"Mal—Draco," she pleads, and it's more than he can stand. He opens his hand and slaps her across the face, as hard as he can. There's a scream as she sees his hand coming down on her, and then sobs. That's it. Just sobs. No more begging, just gentle sobs. Sobs coming out of this beautiful broken girl.

_No, no, no! NO! _She's not a girl; she's not beautiful. She's hardly even human. She's an abomination. He slaps her again. This time there's no scream, just more sobs, which harden in intensity. A few days ago, she wasn't crying. She wasn't begging. When he slapped her then she retained a quiet dignity in her eyes. There's no dignity left in them now. _Good,_ he thinks, _there's no room for dignity in the eyes of a mudblood bitch like her_. Even in his head, however, there's something that rings false about the thought.

"Please, Draco," she speaks again, quietly through the sobs, so different from the hellfury from a few days ago. How long had it been? Does it matter, "Please, Draco," she says again, "I know you don't want to do this. I know you're not a bad person. Please stop. Please let me go. If you go, I promise I won't say anything to anyone. I'll just tell Molly and Arthur I went into hiding. Is that OK? And I won't press charges, none at all. Or if you want," she pleads, looking for something to bargain with, "if you want, I'll leave. I'll never come back. I'll just disappear." Another slap, and this time there are no more sobs but no dignity either. He wonders if this is the next step, and holds her head up to see.

There are tears in her eyes. Her cheeks are beginning to swell again. There's a bit of dried blood in her hair. He sinks his free and into her hair, bushy and greasy and covered with dried sweat and blood, there's still something nice about it. It was nicer a few days ago, when Father brought her in. It was clean then, and it felt nicer to run his fingers through it than he would ever have thought possible. He clenches his hand, there's a little whelp of pain, and suddenly bright red blood, fresh, from newly opened wounds.

"Why?" she asks trembling. Finally, something familiar in her eyes. Curiosity. Part of him thinks he's never seen something more beautiful in his life, and then, the other part of him is furious with her, because it means that this will go on for that much longer. He still has her hair tightly clenched in his fist. He moves his arm with all his strength, moving her, moving the chair she's bound to, and sending them both toppling to the floor. _She's just like the chair_, he tells himself, then thinks better of it. _It's like the chair._ Because, if she is an it, then it's not so bad, this thing that he's doing to her, because Father told him to.

"_Why?_"

_Because Father told me to. _

"Is it for revenge?"

_It's for the Greater Good. _

'Or is it just because I'm a mudblood?" For some reason, the word sends shivers up his spine. It never has before. "Or is it just for the pure sadistic pleasure of it?"

He kicks her, hard, and then there's a little bit of blood coming out of the corners of her mouth.

"I didn't think you were a sadist," she whimpers, and he wants to kick her again. So he does. "I thought a lot of things about you, but I never thought you enjoyed it."

_I don't._

"_Shut up!"_ he yells at her and brings his fist down on her face. And now he's drawn blood, again, but this time without meaning it. He's wearing a ring, and he'd forgotten about it. He wonders whether to take it off. He wants to, but he can't, because this isn't dark magic he's working, it's pitch black, and any show of kindness could ruin it. Instead he hits her again and again and again and againandagainandagain.

Red, red, red, so much red. Stupid mudblood, covered in red. Griffindor red, he isn't thinking straight any more, he doesn't understand what he's doing anymore, his arms feel like they've turned to lead, and still they keep on moving, as if though of they had their own free will. He has none of his own.

And suddenly it stops, two gentle arms pull him off the mudblood covered in red and whisper softly into his ears, "Now, now Draco, that's quite enough. We don't want to kill her, after all."

_What a pity_. He thinks, and then, he collapses alongside the girl covered in red. No. Not a girl. An abomination. No. Not an abomination. His wife. No. No. No.

**Author's Notes: **There will be at least two other prologue chapters, which will tie in with this one and Chapter Six.

I cannot express how saddened I was at the lack of reviews last time. Was last chapter so terrible?

If you like what you see, please review. If you don't like what you see, I'd love to know why.


	17. Chapter 17

**Title: **And All the King's Horses  
**Genre: **Mystery, Angst  
**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione  
**Rating: **T

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. This work is for fun, not profit.

**Summary:** After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.

**Author's Notes: **You're going to hate me.

**Chapter Seventeen  
In which a young man searches for answers in the stars**

By the time he thinks to look at his watch, he's late. Panic fills him. It's past curfew, and he's still in the tower looking at the stars for his Astrology assignment. If he gets caught... he's never been out past curfew, he doesn't know what the punishment is. It doesn't matter. His first thought is "What will Mother think?" And then a pang of pain in his heart as he remembers. _Mother doesn't think_. That's not true. Maybe. But Mother is in no state to be disappointed, and Father is falling apart at the seems, and Grandfather is unlikely to care. Grandfather was at a Governor's meeting at the castle today.

So there it is. No one will care that he's out past curfew. No one important at any rate. It's a disconcerting thought and offers a pyrric sort of comfort. It calms his nerves. He's already out past curfew. What does it matter how late he is now? He goes back to looking at the stars. His Astrology homework is done of course. It has been for hours. But the stars are beautiful and bright and quiet, just like Mother used to be, and he has this impossible hope that the stars will tell him that everything will be ok. He hopes to find traces of a future where Mother will wake from her catatonia and Father will stop drowning in his decanter and they will be a family again.

He searches the stars for hours. Astrology isn't his best subject, and he knows next to nothing of divination and what he wants to do would challenge a Centaur. He wants names and dates and faces, something more than the vague promises of a better future. Finally he thinks he's found something.

A star that could be Mother. Another that might be Father. No. Not Father. It _should_ be Father. But it isn't. He knows where the Malfoy stars are. So now he's found Father and Grandfather, and Mother and a star that should be Father but isn't... He plots them out on his chart. It doesn't make any sense. There are stars missing... he turns to the index of his heavy and yellowed Astrology book for guidance and finds something that might be promising. He turns to the page... the text is old and faded and hard to understand, but he's used to reading books like this in Grandfather's library, even if Grandfather doesn't really let him go near the old precious books, and finally, he think's he's got the lines worked out, he traces them on his chart—they run through two bright and heavy stars. Something about it seems wrong however... he looks up at the sky, and indeed, there aren't two bright and heavy stars, just one small and faded one.

The date on the chart is wrong. Normally it's a very good chart, but it appears that for this particular purpose it's either wrong or out of date. Probably the latter. He wonders what happened to the two stars.

No use in idle wonderment. He goes back to charting it out, even if the chart is out of date, it's the best he's got and maybe it'll be good for something. More lines, nothing on the chart. He compares it to the night sky, and there it is, another star, a dark and beautiful star. He finds it on the chart... no doubt about it, same star, but differently placed, it's gone closer to the star that should be Father but isn't, and strangely enough, farther from the star that probably is Father. It's movement hasn't changed it's relationship to the one star that once was two.

He groans in frustration and crumples the useless chart. His tools are worthless and his knowledge of the subject is flimsy at best. Even if it works, he has no idea what these stars mean. There are some things he knows (Father, Grandfather, Mother), some things he's almost certain he knows but hopes he's wrong about them (the star that should be Father, but isn't), but not enough. He can't make heads or tails of the other stars, and he has no idea how many more lines he'll have to draw, to get a clear picture.

He's so caught up in his despair, that he doesn't hear the footsteps going up the tower's staircase, and he doesn't turn around until he hears the clearing of a throat behind him. And then, when he finally does, his heart almost stops.

"Isn't it rather past your bedtime?" the woman behind him asks, there's something not quite right with her voice, but he can't place just what it might be.

He's not quite sure what to tell her... a thousand things rush through his head. Excuses, pleas for mercy, finally, pathetically and without thinking about it, he finally yelps out, "Please don't tell Grandfather."

She laughs unpleasantly. "Now sweet child, why in Merlin's name would I do that?" Somehow, he doesn't feel reassured. She shifts her weight, and he can see that she's thinking something. He doesn't think it's something particularly nice. "You don't get on very well with your grandfather, do you?"

"I'm not his favorite grandchild," he answers as diplomatically as he can without lying. Before he has the time to ask why she's asking, she continues:

"Lucius Malfoy was here at a Governor's meeting earlier today. He took your sister out to dinner in Hogsmeade."

He shrugs. "I thought that was against the rules."

"At the moment, I wasn't in a position to argue about rules.'

"I see."

"No, I doubt that you do, little Gryffindor. That must have been a real disappointment to old Luci."

He shifts uncomfortably hearing Grandfather referred to so flippantly. "I suppose.'

"So tell me, Mr. Malfoy (or can I call you Scorpius at this hour?) what are you doing out of bed at this hour, and here of all places. Haven't you always been a stickler for the rules like your insufferable whore of a mother?"

That's too much for him. In a sudden rage, he reaches for his wand, aggressive magic already gathering at his fingertips. But the older witch is too quick for him—"_Expeliarmus_!'The wand flies out of his hand and into hers, and residue from the spell slams him into the castle wall.

"Attacking a teacher?" she asks sadistically. "That's worth more than a detention, I think. But it's a bit chilly here in the tower, pick up your things and follow me to my office _child_. Or else, I _will _tell your grandfather."

He looks up at her with hatred blazing in his eyes, but he does as he's told. All his books and quills and charts gathered, he follows her down the spiral staircase, the glow from her wand casting an eerie light.

"So, are you going to tell me what good and proper Scorpius Malfoy was doing in the Astronomy tower at four in the morning?"

"What one usually does in the Astrology tower."

"Really?" she asks with a cold laugh. "You are aware that normally people don't do that alone? Not in the Astrology tower at least. Or was there someone you were waiting for?"

"I meant Astrology," he answers her, his voice low and full of righteous anger and embarrassment. "I was trying to read the future in the stars."

"Really?" and she laughs again. "I can see why you might want to know what the future holds." She stops suddenly in front of an empty suit of armor and puts her wand to his shield; the suit bows and steps aside, revealing a secret passageway. She steps aside and motions him to get in. "You might want to stay away from the stars... I doubt they have anything good to say to you."

"I just wanted to know when Mother would wake up."

And she laughs again, this time a laugh so cold and piercing that he forgets to be angry for fear. "I don't think your mother will wake up. In fact, your grandfather seems to be quite certain of the fact that she'll never wake. He's pulling every string he has to have your parents' marriage annulled."

"What?" he asks a bit stupidly, just as they arrive before her office door.

Before answering him, she digs out a heavy key ring from her robes and opens the heavy door, ushering him inside, to her desk, where she sits him down and then takes her own place in front of him. "Do you want a drink?" she asks him as if though she were treating a guest, rather than a young Gryffindor who broke curfew.

Unsure, he nods his head. "A glass of milk would be nice."

She flicks her wand and a bottle bursts through from a cabinet. It isn't milk, but rather a light brown see-through drink that catches the light eerily. Another flick and two glasses materialize out of thin air; the bottle opens itself and tilts and pours its contents into one glass, and then into the other. He can smell the scent of the drink, lingering in the air. It almost smells of Mother's perfume, or the poison Father drinks. His professor reaches for a glass and brings it to her lips. When he doesn't follow suit, she motions him to drink, obediently, he takes his glass in his hands and brings it closer to him, but he doesn't drink from it.

"But as I was saying," she continues, as if though chatting pleasantly with a friend or a colleague, if I were you, I'd stay away from trying to read the stars. You know, your mother didn't believe in any sort of divination. Your grandfather and father did, but not your mother. She gave old Trewlany hell for it. I don't know what she'd say if she knew her son was dabbling in divination.

"Of course," she continues as she takes another drink, "twenty years ago I would have said that I didn't know what Lucius Malfoy would say if he so much as thought that his son would marry a mudblood."

His hands clench around the glass at the word. He wants nothing more than to leap across the desk and strangle her, but she's an adult witch with a wand, and a teacher no less, and for the first time, he thinks he knows what was off about her voice. For the first time it occurs to him that she might already be drunk, and then it sinks in how late it is, and how inappropriate it is for him to be here, and how no one knows where he is, and how no one probably cares where he is. Suddenly, he is afraid of his teacher.

"Drink, drink," she prods him, waving her wand just a bit menacingly; he presses his lips together and bites them, and then he brings the glass with the brown liquid to his lips and takes just a sip. The liquid tastes foul and it burns the whole way down. Caught unaware he sputters, but before he can put the glass back down she reaches over and pushes the glass back against his lips and tips it over. The liquid spills from the glass into his mouth and over his mouth and across his chin and down his robes. Surprised and startled he swallows a whole mouthful of the stuff all at once, blinking back tears as the foul liquid burns his throat. He coughs, but that only serves to get another mouthful of the stuff in him, and when she finally lets him put the glass down, he can only stare at it in disbelief. The glass which was full is empty now, and he has a bad feeling that most of it is inside of him, not on his face and robes.

It's not the first time he's had alcohol to drink. Grandfather lets him drink wine for Christmas and New Years dinner, and of course there's butterbeer. But never anything like this, and he knows that things like this are supposed to be had in small quantities. He feels sick to his stomach. Still, she pours him another glass, just as big and just as full. "I'm fine for now," he tells her, and wonders desperately if that's the way his voice _should _sound and if he's just being paranoid.

"Trust me kid, you're going to need a lot more than that. So will I. This has been a really shitty day."

"Oh?" he asks stupidly.

"You're a good student; you're good at potions and you like to do schoolwork, like your mother" she says, changing the topic suddenly, "Why haven't you ever entered the potions prize exam?"

"It really didn't seem like you would ever give me a fair shot," he answers, and realizes too late that that came out a lot more honest than he intended.

"Of course I wouldn't, I hate you, you little bastard, but that wouldn't have stopped your mother. Didn't stop your mother. I still have all the prize exams she wrote for Professor Snape, and he couldn't stand her any more than I can stand you."

He thinks he feels a haze descending over his brain, but he can't be sure, and suddenly an idea comes to him. "There's veritaserum in the liquor, isn't there?" he asks.

"Of course there is dear little brat. I have a question, and I think you might have the answer."

"And I suppose you couldn't trust me enough just to ask me?"

"I'm enough of a Slytherin to mistrust everyone, especially Malfoys. Even half-blood Malfoys in Gryffindor."

"Fair enough," he answers. Somehow the knowledge that he's been force-fed vertiaserum along with heavy liquor calms him. "So what do you want to know so badly."

He watches her pull out a parchment and takes it from her when she offers it to him. "Who wrote that?" She asks him.

He looks at it down. "It looks like Rose's handwriting."

"It is Rose's handwriting," she tells him. Read it. I want you to tell me who's the real author of the text.

He doesn't really understand what she's asking or why, but he looks down and starts to read. His head hurts and his stomach is upset, but he can still sort-of/kind-of concentrate on the text. It's a potions essay—no surprise there. It's a good potions essay. Well, of course, he'd expect nothing less than that from Rose. Grandfather is always going on about how beautiful and brilliant she is, and Grandfather is always right about everything. It's a _very _good potions essay. He pauses. It's a familiar potions essay. He blinks a couple of times, until he remembers where he's read this. _Severus Snape_, he almost blurts out under the influence of veritaserum, but then, with all of his willpower he bites on his tounge and swallows the answer. "Why do you want to know?" he answers with a question, not technically a lie.

"Your sister handed that in for her potions prize essay. There's no way in hell a first year, even the daughter of that bushy-haired know-it-all could possibly have written an essay like that. Now tell me, who really wrote that essay?"

_Severus Snape!_

But he bites back the answer and tries to push out another. It comes out as a strangled groan.

"Why are you even trying to lie?" she asks

"Because you're trying to hurt my little sister," he tells her.

"Yes, well, if it's any consolation to you, she deserves it. She deliberately ruined my plans."

"So you're telling me that you think my sister is clever enough to ruin your plans, but not clever enough to write this paper?"

"Yes."

"Why would she even care about your plans?"

"I was supposed to be your step-mother," she answers plainly, and it finally dawns on him across the haze that she's gone ahead and drunk the veritaserum too. "Actually, I was supposed to be your mother. But then that mudblood whore went and married Draco. I shouldn't blame her though. She was engaged to the Weasel before the Marriage Law was passed. Now be a good little boy and tell me, who wrote that essay."

"Se—Wait," it's getting harder to resist the urge to blurt out the whole truth. He's sleepy and his head hurts, and his stomach feels all twisted up, but the Marriage Law is important.

"Do I have to pour more veritaserum down your throat?" she asks.

"No," he answers. "If you keep on asking me, I won't be able to bite my tongue. But, if you could, could you tell me about the Marriage Law?"

"There are some things it's better not to know, though I doubt the child of Hermione Granger would ever believe me."

"I want to know about the Marriage Law, what can you tell me about it?"

"I can tell you a lot about it. It fucked up my life. But no one talks about it anymore. Where'd you hear about it?"

"Ronald Weasley," he tells her, by now he can't really fight back the urge to gurgle out the truth. It's just Rose's name he has to keep secret.

'Someone has been up to Azkaban, I see. Does your grandfather know?"

"No."

"Don't worry; I won't tell him. We're not on the best terms right now."

"So can you tell me about the Marriage Law?"

"Of course I can, but I don't think you want to know about it."

"I'm not a child. Weasley said it was important. Professor Longbottom refused to tell me anything about it. Grandfather said there was nothing to say, that it wasn't important."

"Your grandfather lied to you child. The Marriage Law is tremendously important, at least to him. But I can see why Lucius Malfoy wouldn't want you to know what the Marriage Law is. Alright, I'll tell you everything I know about the Marriage Law, but before I do that, tell me who really wrote this paper?"

"Sev--" he actually bites down on his tongue.

"Who wrote this paper?"

"Sev--"

"Who wrote this paper?"

"Severus—

"Severus Snape?"

"Yes."

"Severus Snape wrote this paper? Where is it?"

"In Grandfather's library, along with the rest of Professor Snape's manuscripts. I didn't mean to tell you that. You aren't going to have Rose expelled?"

"No child, I'm just going to turn the tables and get something that belongs to me back."

"What?"

"Your father."

"But, he's married to my mother."

"Only because of the Marriage Law. Now, be a good boy, and I'll tell you what you want to know, but you may want to drink some more. I don't think you're going to like it."

**Author's Notes: **Evil cliffhanger. I know you all want to know what the deal is with the Marriage Law... But I just couldn't bring myself to have it all easily explained by Pansy. I promise you'll get the details of the Marriage Law in the next chapter. Reviews, as always would be appreciated,especially given that this is a longer chapter. Super bonus points to anyone who can make heads or tails of what's written in the stars.


	18. Chapter 18: Introduction I

**Title: **And All the King's Horses  
**Genre: **Mystery, Angst  
**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione  
**Rating: **T

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. This work is for fun, not profit.

**Summary:** After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.

**Author's Notes: **Anyone waiting for _Blood, Silk, and Steal_... It's not that I don't want to update it; it's that the five drafts I've written have all sucked. Sorry.

**Introduction, Part I**

**In which the the situation is completely misunderstood**

"I thank you Miss Granger for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice."

She can see his broken pride in his eyes and something tells her he's swallowing back bile. Who would have conceived of a day when a Malfoy would be so subservient to a mudblood.

"Miss Granger now is it?" she ask with just a tinge of malice in her voice. She's about to be cruel, but after what he and his kin have put her and her friends through, after what they did to Ginny, after what happened to Harry, after they forced Ron to leave her on an impossible quest, she's well damned entitled to a little pettiness. "Whatever happened to mudblood, or plain old _Granger_?" she says her name with the derision so cruelly burnt into her memory. "Really Malfoy, we're old Hogwarts _friends_. I'd absolutely _hate_ to see our _friendship_ change just because of the fact that you lost the war."

His hands start shaking. He looks away. "Please," it's a whisper, "my mother died in the fight against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

"Hardly. Voldemort decided that you and your father were useless to him and decreed that you should die and your mother died to protect you both. The fact that her death also prevented Lord Voldemort from killing Harry is the reason you and your miserable father aren't locked up in Azkaban with your psychotic aunt.

"But go ahead, Malfoy, tell me why you've come and asked to meet with this worthless mudblood."

She sees he's about to get up to leave. "I'm sorry to have wasted your time miss. I'll let myself out."

"No," she stops him. "You're here now; I want to know why."

She can't make out the succession of expressions on his face. Finally he settles on one which she can clearly read as defeat. "I'm here because I'm worried about my father."

That was something she wasn't expecting. "I'm sure you realize that I have very little love in my breast for your father."

"Yes. I know. I understand. But," he looks down at his lap, "I just didn't know anyone who might help. The obvious suspect, the only one really stupid enough to help my father was Potter, but, as you know Potter's not in any condition to help anyone."

And now she's angry. "You would do well not to insult those from whom you seek help. And tell me, why the devil would I want to help your father?"

"You wouldn't, except of course that you're a Gryffindor. It's just that my father hasn't been dealing very well with the death of my mother. I have to drag him away from her portrait. Otherwise he just sits there and chats with her. He doesn't want to eat or sleep, just sit there with Mother's portrait."

"I notice he wasn't too depressed to testify against Bellatrix Lestrange."

"That's when it all started. I'm not going to say that Father was fine before my aunt's trial, because he wasn't, but at least he was _coping_. I don't know what happened. I imagine she said something to him. Her mind was almost her most dangerous weapon… But after that, he completely shut down.

"Can you imagine, a man like my father, babbling to a portrait every day. If I didn't force him to eat… and he won't go to bed or bathe. It's embarrassing, I have to have the house-elves take care of him.

"But then, every once in a while he disappears. Terrified the hell out of me the first time he wasn't there talking to Mother. I though he'd gone and killed himself. But no, one of the house elves found him in the library. _God_ Hermione," and she flinches at her name coming from his lips without so much as a tinge of hate, "you don't want to know what books he's been reading."

She sighs. "Is he trying to bring her back?"

"I don't know. Maybe. He even went to see that quack Trewlaney."

"But Trewlaney deals with the future, not with the past," she doesn't understand. Why would Lucius Malfoy, even a depressed Lucius Malfoy, want to have anything to do with that third-rate snake-oil saleswoman?"

"You wouldn't know this," he begins and she can see that he's looking for a way to put this delicately, "because you simply didn't grow up in a magical environment and because you never took Divination very seriously, but there's more to that particular art than looking at crystal balls and tea leaves. Muggles read the _Odyssey_, right?" She blinks and she nods, because she didn't know that _wizards_ read the _Odyssey_. "Do you remember that scene where Odysseus goes to the Underworld in order to speak with…"

That's all he needs to say because now she knows what he's about to say. "Necromancy. Commune with the dead to unveil the future."

"Exactly."

"But Trewlaney, I mean seriously, the woman couldn't prophesy herself out of a wet paper bag, why in the world would Lucius Malfoy think she could raise the dead?" It makes sense, except for the fact that it doesn't make any sense. She wonders with horror if a cold calculating man like Lucius Malfoy could possibly sink so deeply into despair that he would be able to delude himself into thinking that someone like Sybill Trewlaney could possibly have the skill to raise the dead.

Draco's response is enough to make her shiver. This heartless boy who in the past has brought her nothing but grief is baring his soul to her and it is a poor and broken soul, just like hers. "I don't know. I know he's an unforgivable bastard Herimone, but he's my _dad_ and he's breaking apart at the seams. I don't know what the hell went on with Trewlaney, but he came back even worse. He just sat there in front of Mother's portrait, looking at her, not saying anything for a week. I couldn't get him to eat anything. I seriously considered casting the Imperious curse on him _just to get him to eat_. Do you know how hard it is for a _painting _of your _dead mother_ to tell you how concerned she is about your _dad_?"

And she stays silent, because she doesn't. This terrible war, this war that has taken from her the little sister she never had and the mind of her best friend and the company of her lover, this terrible war has left her alive and sane and here, and it hasn't touched her parents. Despite everything, despite the fact that she's the mudblood monstrosity that Voldemort and Lucius Malfoy set out to destroy, she has suffered the least of anyone she knows. Her parents are alive and they're sane. Harry might not be sane, but he's alive. And Ron, Ron, Ron who could have died like Ginny, but didn't die and didn't go mad, Ron is alive and he loves her and he'll come back as soon as he finds a cure for Harry. She hasn't lost anything, not like Neville or Harry or Ron, or even Draco and Lucius Malfoy have.

"I just didn't know who to turn to, because half my friends are dead and the other half are in Azkaban, and my mum is dead and my auntie is in Azkaban and my dad is going insane!" And she shivers to hear the people she has so many reasons to hate called "mum" and "auntie" and "dad".

She sighs. "What do you want me to do Draco? Even if I didn't hate your father, even if I wanted to help him, I can't bring your mother back from the dead and I can't find him a bride. The best I could do would be to recommend a good psychologist, but I doubt he'd take well to being taken to a muggle head shrinker. And besides, I have too much work; this new Marriage Law they're proposing—

His eyes light up, "But don't you see Hermione, that's exactly where you can help. I know you're opposed to the Marriage Law. Forcing purebloods to marry mudbloods over some cockamamie excuse that the bloodlines are inbred! It's the only thing on the face on the earth over which you and my father will ever agree. I was discussing it with Pansy, you know, because we were trying to decide whether to move up the wedding date, and Father overheard—it's the first time I've seen him care about _anything_ since Mother died. He _cares _about this. Of course, he doesn't care about it for the same reasons that you care about it, but all that matters is that you two agree. He cares about the issue. I saw his eyes light up with the shadow of righteous anger. But then the lights dimmed again, because he knows that the outrage is born of the hatred that led him to join the Dark Lord in the first place and that led to Mother's death. But if he were to work _with you_, the object of that hatred against the law, then it would be ok. He could feel passion for something again."

She isn't sure just what to say. Certainly a passionate Lucius Malfoy is not something that she wants. But on the other hand, Malfoy's resources are still significant and he could be a valuable ally against the Marriage Law. And for once, he would be a dependable ally, because he has even more reason than she does to oppose the passing of the Law. She is engaged to a pureblood—she would be free from the Law even if they passed it. But Draco might not be, and she can't imagine anything more displeasing to Lucius Malfoy than having the family name tainted with dirty blood.

"Ok," she says finally. "I'll schedule a meeting with your father and tell Percy Weasley to schedule a joint appearance before the Wizengamut. We'll stop this stupid Marriage Law yet."

"Thank you, Hermione."

"Oh, and Draco?"

"Yes."

"It's Miss Granger."

"Oh, yes. I see. Sorry, Miss Granger, ma'am." Well, if she's going to be helping Lucius Malfoy, even out of self-interest, she can at least watch his son squirm uncomfortably.

**Author's Notes: **Ok, so here's a riddle: how can I tell you what the Marriage Law is (pretty much the standard Marriage Law in every Marriage Law fic) without actually assuaging your curiosity? ANSWER: This chapter. If you want more answers however, I suggest that you review.


	19. Interlude

**Title: **And All the King's Horses  
**Genre: **Mystery, Angst  
**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione  
**Rating: **T (But mostly because if The Dark Knight isn't R, then I really don't know what R means... Or M. Whatever)

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. This work is for fun, not profit.

**Summary:** After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.

**Author's Note: **This is a fairly creepy chapter. It's not as violent as I had anticipated, but there is some gore and definite mentions of blood. If it creeps you out feel free to skip this one, it really is an interlude, and it's not all that important to the plot.

This chapter gets dedicated to Dieselwriter who read a little more in what I wrote than I had originally intended and inspired this.

**Interlude**

**In which two lonely friends share a laugh**

It's raining outside and the water's getting in through the window. He can't be bothered to care. It's cold and its damp and its dark—what else is new? And then there's a rat which peeks its head meekly out of a hole in the stone. "Nice rat," he says softly, "do you want some food?" he asks it and now he's glad he decided to skip lunch. He wasn't hungry anyway. The rat sniffs the air "Come, come," he entices it, pushing the plate of limp vegetables and tough meat towards the rat. When that doesn't work he tries the stale bread. "I know you're hungry," he tells the rat, "And I'm lonely. Come, keep me company and I'll give you my food."

The rat isn't biting, so he goes back to listening to the rain. He has no idea how much time has gone by when he hears the rat squeaking and scurrying past him to the plate on the floor. "Good rat," he says happily, and as he watches the rat eat up the disgusting slop they feed him his hand edges ever so slowly towards the glinting metal lying discarded on the ground. He has it in his fingers. He's barely moved. He has it in his hands. Yes. Now, quickly. Yes.

"There's a good rat."

"What is your obsession with killing rats?" she asks him from across the hall. Her voice never surprises him anymore. Like the voices in his head. Sometimes he can't tell them apart anymore.

"What is your obsession with asking questions you already know the answers to?"

"Well, eternity is a long time to spend in this place. Beats boredom."

"That's what you said yesterday."

"And the day before that."

"And the day before _that_."

"And before that."

"Anyway, you know why I hate rats."

"You know, hating rats and killing rats are, conceptually speaking, two very different things."

"I suppose you would know all about the conceptions of killing."

She smiles a toothy, yellow smile which glints in the darkness. "Oh I do, I do, do you want me to teach you?"

He smiles back at her a grim smile. He isn't sure if it's to keep himself from going insane, or if he has gone insane and that's why he's smiling. Of course, of course, he tells himself, it's because he needs her help, or he will, or he might, if he ever gets out of this place. But then the question asks, But isn't that insanity?

"Yes," he answers back. "I want you to teach me _everything_."

"Oh?" she asks, just like she asks every day. Just like she's asked for the last… how many years has it been since they fell into this pattern? "I know an awful lot, you know. All that knowledge has got to cost you something."

"You know I can give you exactly what you want." Sometimes the answer is coy, just out of boredom. But today he says it straight, just to shake it up a bit.

"I know you can, or you could, but would you?"

"I would."

"That's what you always say. I can't help but wonder however. You know what I want, you know what I want more than anything in the world, and you know what that means. So why would you give it to me?"

He shrugs. The rat has stopped moving now. "What you do with your life is your own affair, provided you leave me out of it."

She cackles. Her laughter doesn't send shivers up his spine. He wonders if anything ever will again. "That's either the most idealistically naïve thing I've ever heard, or the most beautifully cynical thing I've ever heard."

"Must be the former, given the company you keep," he tells her.

"Yes, you are _exceedingly_ cynical."

He almost shivers, because he wasn't talking about himself. But he doesn't.

"What will it take to get under your skin?" she asks. "It used to be so easy. All I had to do was start talking about her."

"You don't like talking about her any more that I like listening to you talk about her."

"That's true. Poor pathetic creature, to think that her suffering would have touched even my heart. Not exactly a pretty girl, if you don't mind my saying so, but so devoted. Devotion I can understand. Devotion like that I can appreciate. It's really the only worthwhile thing, and when the devotion was gone from her eyes just like everything else it broke my heart. I almost wept. If I ever lose my devotion, will you promise to kill me?"

"If you ever lose your devotion I'll dance and sing until my legs give out and my voice is hoarse." He informs her grimly.

"Oh that's cruel; and here I was so nice."

"Yes. You were." His tone changes and for a second he can see the little girl in question, he can see her as she was and he's glad he never had to see her as she became. For a second he is a person. For a second he is grateful. "Thank you again," he tells her, just for a second he is honest.

"I would say that it was my pleasure. But it wasn't. Who would have thought that killing the wretched enemy of my glorious Lord wouldn't have been a pleasure?"

"All I heard were her screams. All I could hear were her screams. You, _you_, made it so that I _had_ to hear her screams. But, I didn't know. If I had known, things might have turned out differently."

"Do you think so?"

"No."

"Yes you do. If you had known the truth my darling brother-in-law would be here and you wouldn't be."

He laughs. "What does it matter? It's all in the past. What does it matter what you did or didn't do? What does it matter what you did to me? What does it matter if you cursed me to hear my sister's screams? What does it matter if you were the one who put an end to those screams? What does it matter why you put an end to those screams? What does it matter if you made me scream too? What does _any_ of it matter?"

"It matters to me." She sounds like a child. She's old enough to be his mother. "It matters to me that I made you scream. I made you beg. I made you bleed. It matters that we had you, _you_, and that we could have killed you, but instead of your life, I just took a little blood.

"Don't you find it comforting to know that you bleed red? There's no color in this place. Just grey. Not even black. How sad. Black is my favorite color. Ha! There's a surprise. Or maybe it's a joke. I don't know. You know, my hair used to be black, but now it's gone grey. Yours too, I'm sad to inform you. But red, well it's something else, isn't it little one? Have I ever told you? Red's my second favorite color. Such a lovely color for things. Blood. Eyes. Hair. And I know your blood is red. Or at least I remember that your blood is red. Maybe we should check, just to make sure it hasn't gone grey too. You know, between the two of us, I bet we could paint the whole room red. Don't think the dementors would like that though."

"I don't think the dementors can see color." He says.

"You don't think the dementors can see color?" She asks.

"Well, no. I mean, I just don't imagine that they can see color."

"You know, that's the first time you've said anything about the dementors being colorblind."

"You know, you're right." He's astounded. An original thought. How long has it been since he voiced one of these? It's hilarious. He starts laughing.

"It's pretty funny," she says, "I never thought of that." She's laughing too.

They're together and laughing. Just like he used to laugh with his friends before her friends took them away from him. Two old friends, and now that he thinks of it, she really is his oldest friend, bitchy old crone, and the one he's spent the most time with. The dementors won't come however. There is no mirth in either of their laughters. There is no mirth in Azkaban.

**Authors' Notes: **Being in Azkaban can screw with your head. Being in Azkaban with only a psychopathic sadist for company can really screw with your head. (I assume we're all clear on the characters in question?) Just so you know, the characters in this chapter will see to it that bad things happen if you don't review. (Ok, so not really. Still, reviewing would be really nice.)


	20. Chapter 20: Introduction II

**Title: **And All the King's Horses  
**Genre: **Mystery, Angst  
**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione  
**Rating: **T (But mostly because if The Dark Knight isn't R, then I really don't know what R means... Or M. Whatever)

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. This work is for fun, not profit.

**Summary:** After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.

**Author's Note: **This chapter is long, and it's all over the place.

**Introduction, Part II  
In which a broken man is promised forgiveness**

What he wants at the moment, what he really, really, really wants, is a nice, hot bath.

Not really.

He's not really sure what he wants. He knows he doesn't want what he has: an aunt in Azkaban, a talking portrait of his mother, a broken father, and a large manor house to bring the emptiness together. So how would he change things?

Mother alive, certainly. But then, would that be mother alive at his expense? Does he wish he were dead? Does he wish his mother hadn't died for him, and that he had died like he should have? What good is death? Perhaps it's better than what he has now, but it isn't what he wants. Through everything, despite everything, he wants desperately to live. So while he's quite sorry that Mother is dead, he isn't quite sorry that she died _for him_. Because even more than having Mother alive, he wants to _live_.

Father then. He doesn't want Father to sit there and mumble to that damnable portrait which is making him hate the face of the Mother who gave him life and then died so that he might keep it. Does he wish Father had died instead of Mother? More than anything, because Mother died for him, and he knows that Father wouldn't have died for him; Father wouldn't even concede to die for Mother, and Mother's death has killed him.

The war is over, peace is returned, children can go outside and be joyous without fearing for their lives; the war is over and everyone is happy, except for him because idiot Father picked the wrong side of the war to be on. So yes. This is all Father's fault, and he _does_ want Father dead. Dead as a doornail, because he knows that Mother wouldn't waste away in front of a portrait if the situation were reversed. Mother would cry. Mother would grieve. Mother would hold him close to her and seek comfort in him as he had so often sought comfort in her, but then, Mother would stand, because Mother would be able to see, would be able to know that she still had _him_ and in him she had the promise of a new tomorrow. Mother would wear black for the rest of her days, but she would serve tea to Pansy and plan his wedding to Pansy, and when she saw her grandchildren, Mother would smile. But most of all, he wishes Mother were alive because none of this is her _fucking_ fault.

But he can't kill Father (nor does he want to), any more than he can kill himself.

What if the war hadn't turned drastically against them? What if Father hadn't failed that night in the Ministry? What if he hadn't failed again and again and again. Would the Dark Lord have triumphed? Would Aunt Bellatrix be living grandly as the most important woman in wizardom? Would Mother be alive? Would Father be a great and feared man, instead of this sobbing shell? He doesn't know. But he does know that Scarhead wouldn't have the problems he has now (there's a dark chuckle), and if he had his way the Weasel wouldn't be off in the frozen reaches of Hell, or wherever he is, he'd be nice and warm in a bed made of dirt. And Granger. Insufferable-know-it-all Granger would be dead too. Or maybe she'd be begging at his feet, instead of the other way around.

He wants to hate her, like he hates his Aunt and his Father and Scarhead and Weasley and You-Know-Who and himself, even. But, Granger is different. Granger's first sin was to be born, and every sin after was simply to stay alive. How can he blame her? How can he blame her when he cannot even kill himself or his Father? And insufferable uppity bitch that she is, she has every reason to hate him, has been given every reason by his own hand, and even more reasons to hate his Father and his Aunt and the monster the three of them served, and instead of laughing at the crumbling House of Malfoy, she extended her hand in aid when he asked for her help.

So he can't even honestly want the simplest solution. What then? If not the Dark Mark, what then? Does he wish that his Father had been a bastion of tolerance? Does he wish that when he extended that hand to Harry Potter, oh-so-many years ago that it had been in good faith? Does he wish that he had never sneered at Ronald Weasely for his father's silly sympathies and his shabby clothes? Would he have been in Gryffindor, friends with the Golden Trio. Maybe he would have been in the Golden Trio. Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, and… and who? Ronald Weasley? Hermione Granger? Maybe it would have been the Golden Quadrangle? No. Neville Longbottom is evidence enough of that. What would have been of Neville Longbottom if the House of Malfoy had not dabbled in the darkness? Would Auntie have… would someone else? Or would Neville's parents be brilliant aurors still? Maybe not even? Would He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named be namable?

He doesn't want to think about these questions. He wants to marry Pansy and burn through as much as the Malfoy fortune as it takes to clean the name and his hands and to make him forget everything that he has done and everything that has been done to him, and even more importantly every that has been done _for_ him.

A normal life. Is that too much to ask?

Yes. With a name like Malfoy, yes.

What he wants at the moment, what he really, really, really wants, is a good, stiff drink.

Not really.

He orders the house elf to bring him one regardless; because there's no way in hell he's going to go talk to his Father without just a little bit of alcohol to steel his nerves. Or a lot of alcohol, as the case may be.

The nasty little creature brings him the short stumpy glass with the burning brown liquid and the ice cubes which don't do anything to take the burn away. He takes the glass, hears the ice clink and ring against the glass as he tilts his head and downs it all in one burning motion. And then, just because he can, and just because he's a nasty bigoted pureblood who isn't sorry his family supported Voldemort but is very, very sorry his family supported the guy who lost, he kicks the poor creature.

And the house elf, repugnant creature that it is, simply takes it, like always, groveling pathetically. It's enough to make him want to kick it again, but the creature apparently isn't stupid enough to wait around for the second kick.

So now there's no house elf to kick and nothing to drink. There are no more Dark Lords to swear loyalty to. No more chosen boys to mock. No more mudbloods to beg from. Only a large manor house with an enormous hall with a beautiful painting and a broken man. Well, that's life, now a smile for his audience and it's his turn to stumble into hell.

Father is having tea and crumpets with "Mother."

"Draco, my dear boy, won't you join us? I was just telling your mother about that awful Marriage Law."

Mother's portrait smiles politely. "You know Draco," she/it says, "maybe you and Pansy should hurry up the wedding; it'd be dreadful to see the name Malfoy wasted on filth if the Ministry does pass this law."

Father shakes his head vigorously, which he takes to perhaps be a good sign. "No; there's no way a law like this can pass. If only I could do something, but I'm afraid Narcissa that my current standing at the Ministry does not afford me the privilege of an audience before the Wizengamut."

There it is: lucidity swimming in madness. He has only one lifeline and he hopes that it shall work. "Father, what if I could get you an audience?"

"Well," Father takes the cup of tea in his hand and holds it pensively, "While I don't have influence with the Wizengamut per se, by my estimates I do have some influence still with certain members of the Wizengamut, who more through cowardice than loyalty were able to keep their stations intact, they in turn have influence with other members of the Wizengamut." And then Father puts the teacup down and smiles pleasantly. "But I'm afraid that you _can't _get me an audience with the Wizengamut, and it's just as well because I feel far too old for politics. Besides, your mother needs me here; otherwise she'd have naught but house elves for company."

"You shouldn't worry about me," the portrait says with a hint of trepidation in its/her voice. "I like it here and the house elves are no bother. You haven't been out of the house since, when did you go out of the house last, Lucius darling?"

Father frowns. "When I went to see that dreadful Trelawney woman, really Narcissa, I'd much rather stay here with you than deal with people like her."

"Yes, you were rather a fright when you came back that day," Portrait-Mother concedes. And there it is, the two of them are back at it again, in their own make-believe world where Mother is still alive and Father is fine and he's nowhere to be found because he doesn't,can't, buy into the illusion. So he interrupts.

"Father, I did get you an audience with the Wizengamut."

The teacup falls and shatters. Father looks helplessly at the fallen glass, stupidly, and then, of all the absurd possibilities, he _kneels _down and starts to pick the shards of porcelain. "Lucius stop that this instant!" the portrait yells. He goes to Father and pulls him off the ground. As if though in the heat of battle, he violently pulls his wand out and _reparos_ the broken teacup.

"Oh yes," Father states dumbly and then sits back on the couch, sinking into the cushions, sinking into himself. Father looks at his hands for an instant and then brings his thumb to his mouth and starts sucking.

"Father, what are you doing?"

"I've… I've cut myself," Father answers.

"Father, you have a wand, a cut like that is nothing to fix."

Father looks away. He can tell that the false glamour is gone from his eyes. "No Draco, I don't. It's not my wand, not anymore and you know as well as I do that all registered former Death Eaters must get approval from the Ministry before purchasing anything more magical than a sugar quill and wouldn't it be lovely to explain to some idiot ink muggle at the Ministry just _why _Lucius Malfoy needs a new wand?"

"Father, may I see your wand?"

"It's mywand," Father replies, and that's when he realizes he's made a mistake. "It's _my _wand. It _is_ my wand. It is my wand? Isn't it?" Father's eyes are far away, and as he continues to mumble pathetically, he knows that Father isn't here, or he is _here_, but not here. Father's stopped talking. Horror is fixed in his eyes and his breath is heavy and irregular. Father's right hand is clenched tightly around the cushion he's sitting on and his left hand is twitching on his thigh. "It was _my_ wand," Father seems on the verge of tears and so he does the only thing he can do, which is gently to sit down next to Father and take the older man into his arms and his Father lets go of a single sob and buries his face into his shoulders and all he can do as he holds his Father is think of the wrongness of it all, and pretend like everything's going to be alright.

"When, when _he_," the word comes out of Father's trembling lips as a whimper and he doesn't need to ask who _he_ is, "when _he_ asked me for my wand, _my wand_, _she_ took my hand and it was all going to be fine."

"Things aren't fine Father, and they aren't going to be fine, not for a long time, maybe not ever. But that's fine, because that's life. I know you miss Mother, I miss her too, but we have to get back up. You-Know-Who, no, fuck that, it's time we stop living in fear of his name, _Voldemort_, may have been a sadistic unstable monster, but we fought for a _cause_ Father, and the cause was _good. _We suffered and bled for our ideals and Mother died for them. What good would her death be if we didn't get up and stand on our feet and start walking?"

"But how can I Draco? You don't know, you don't understand. You can't understand…"

"Can't understand? How can I not understand? She was my _mother_. What can compare to the pain of losing the woman who gave you life? But she gave me life, and then she died so that I might keep it. Mother's death was the price of our life and I will not waste that gift. Mother is dead and no portrait or hack fortuneteller can change that. Nor can any of your books. There are however things that we can and must change. This Marriage Law—they want to make us marry the mudbloods. How many of us are there left? Mother is dead, Aunt Bellatrix is in Azkaban, Sirius is dead as well. The House of Black is extinct. Half the Pureblood families left in Britain have been extinguished in the Wars or polluted through miscegenation. If this law is passed there will be no more Purebloods. Do you wish to see the House of Malfoy fall to the same fate as the House of Black?

"So much of our blood has been spilt. We must protect the blood that rests. _You_ must protect the purity of our lineage, _you_ must do everything in your power to save the ancient name of Malfoy because if you don't not only won't things be fine, they'll be worse than they ever could have been under Voldemort. Do you want us to be forced to be as degenerate as the Weasleys?

"So get up and do something about it! You're a man, not a ghost, not a corpse, _live_ because Mother _can't._"

"And what pray tell my son, do you want this broken shell of a man who can't even bring himself to use his own wand to do?"

"I want you to do what you've always done. I want you to use your money and your influence and make questionable alliances to advance the Pureblood cause."

"I've had enough of questionable alliances."

"This one's harmless."

"There's no such thing as harmless. Who?"

"Hermione Granger."

Father coughs. "That Mudblood wench is the most dangerous woman in wizardom."

"Yes. She is. But she doesn't know that."

Father laughs. "You really don't understand anything at all do you Draco?"

"I understand that I practically had to get down on my knees and beg her to let us help her, and if I can do that, then you can certainly stand besides her in front of the Wizengamut and tell them what a terrible idea the stupid Marriage Law is."

For the first time in a very long time, Father smiles, a real smile, and it's really Father, not the ghost of Father. "How delightfully insidious. The Golden Mudblood and Lucius Malfoy, together, united against the Ministry. How could anyone argue against us? And if it works, it'll bring us back into the good graces of civil society. Not even that blood traitor Arthur will be able to lift so much as a finger against us if Hermione _fucking_ Granger, patron saint of Mudbloods, House Elves and Chosen Boys, is our ally."

"So you approve?"

"I find it impossible that I didn't think of it before myself."

- - -

Father is fully dressed. Not in his best clothes, because that would be ostentatious and underline some sort of insecurity or need to impress and because in any event the woman they're going to see is a Mudblood and isn't deserving of anything approaching Sunday best, but he's well dressed, certainly the best dressed he's been since Malfoy Manor was turned into a homebase for Death Eater operations. His hair has been meticulously combed and tied back with silk ribbon. All in all, Father looks at least ten years younger, much like the man he remembers from his youth. Father looks like the sort of man who might buy every member of the Slytherin team Nimbus 2001s or convince the Hogwarts Board of Governors to sack the muggle-loving headmaster. Father looks like the sort of man who can stroll into the Minister of Magic's house unannounced and be received with reverence.

There's only one thing off about Father, only one thing to hint at the fact that something might be wrong and that he's not a Hogwarts Governor any more and that he's not particularly well received into the Minister's household. The cane. Father isn't using it. He understands why, but at least this is a first step, and maybe it's really a good thing that Father doesn't have the cane with him. He was never very good at symbolism, but he thinks that there's something poetic about it. Except of course that the cane wasn't really a cane, but more of a walking stick, a walking stick which he used to demonstrate his power and class, and, um, yes, he was never very good at symbolism.

Father is walking briskly, and it's not the I'm-uncomfortable-let's-try-to-get-this-over-with-as-soon-as-possible sort of briskly. Father is walking so briskly that he's almost following at his heels. Father only stops briefly at the reception, which is something he's never seen Father do before, to let the secretary that he's here to see Miss Granger. Then, that's it; Father doesn't wait for a response, and he can't help but smile, because this is what it was like _before_, this is what it was like to come to the Ministry with Father before the War and before Mother died.

They get to Granger's office, and Father knocks, but doesn't wait for a response before opening the door. Granger looks up and is about to protest, but that's as far as he gets to see because Father slams the door closed in his face.

That too is just like before.

- - -

The door finally opens. Granger's opening the door for Father and Father is oozing charm by the liter. An invitation to dinner is extended and promptly denied. He doesn't know what is more comforting, the fact that Father's playing his role perfectly, or the fact that Hermione is smart enough not to believe a second of it.

The trip home (how delightful a word it is again) is short and silent, but pleasant nonetheless. Just as they're about to cross the threshold Father turns to him, suddenly old and sad again. "You will forgive me, won't you Draco?"

"Of course Father."

"Miss Granger hasn't. Somehow, I doubt she ever will."

Barely ten minutes afterwards, Father is having tea, chatting pleasantly with the Portrait, telling it of his day at the Ministry. Just like the good old days. Nothing like the good old days.

And so it goes, Father is fine, except Father isn't fine, and more and more he finds that he can't stand the Portrait of his Mother. It sounds like Mother, looks like Mother, but it isn't Mother, and it isn't fair because Father can't seem to comprehend that without turning into a sobbing shadow and it isn't fair because he'd coming to hate the face of the woman who gave him life, and it isn't fair to her and it isn't fair to him, and it's all Father's fault.

He wants to stay out of the Manor, but he can't because he knows that if he did, Father would never leave it. So he stays and Father leaves every day to go to the Ministry, to plot with Granger and pull strings and pay bribes and do Heaven-knows-what-else. He on the other hand stays home (what a terrible word) with the Portrait and the house-elves and the ice clinking against glass.

Pansy's on holiday in Provence and she can't come to keep him company. Sometimes he wanders the grounds, but they aren't as well tended and the peacocks are all gone.

There's not much to do elsewhere. Draco Malfoy is _persona non grata_ everywhere in Wizarding Britain. One day he ventures out into Muggle London behind his Father's back (what would Father say if he knew?) and he's pleased at the anonymity, but the lack of hateful glares, but it doesn't take the loneliness away. Everything is strange. He goes into a bookstore and finds the titles strange and unappealing. The pictures don't move and he finds it disturbing to see a painting staring stilly back at him from the cover of a strangely-bound book.

He goes into a something called a Virgin Megastore. He doesn't know what a "Megastore" is and the name sounds very dodgy, but it's there and it's large and there are people going in and out. Inside it's loud and crowded and stranger even than the bookstore. There are little boxes with more dead pictures and he wonders if these are some strange sort of Muggle books. There are moving staircases, which are comforting, even if they don't move like the ones at Hogwarts did. They take him to another floor where there are large strange boxes, these with living paintings, and at first he feels a burst of joy to find something familiar, but then he realizes that they _aren't_ paintings, and that they move too much for photographs. Hell, they move too much for paintings. A Muggle walks up to him and asks him if he wants any help. "No, no," he just stutters out, because he doesn't know what these things are called, and he doesn't need help from a _Muggle_ (even if he does need help from a Muggle-born) and in any case, he doesn't really have any Muggle money.

Which makes him wonder all the more why the hell he's ended up in a Muggle pub, sitting at the bar with a bottle of Muggle beer. There's a girl. A really pretty girl. She kind of looks like, like, he can't quite place it, but someone he knows, someone pretty, even if she doesn't sound like her. She buys him a drink, and he smiles at her audacity. What good wizarding girl would buy him a beer? None than he can think of. She's pretty though. And smiling. He's surprised to find that she's pretty smart too. He doesn't know anything about Muggle culture or Muggle practices or Muggle history, so he keeps the conversation classical. She knows her myths. She knows him pretty well, and pretty soon (after a few more beers—beers that she pays for) they're laughing over Odysseus and the Cyclops.

"I mean, he's gotten away with it scott-free, and then he has to go and tell _Poseidon's son_, whom he's just blinded that he's the mighty Odysseus, and in case that's not enough, he's like, 'let me give you my street address and phone number. You'll probably want my date of birth and SSN?' "

"SSN?"

"Social Security Number, I forget that you folks don't have them."

"Us folks?" Does she know?

"You Brits."

"Oh, yes."

She's pretty and smart, and it would probably—and she's a Muggle. A goddam _Muggle_. That's the end of that. He gets up and leaves suddenly, and she follows him, not understanding. "Wait, is everything ok?" she asks, "Was it something I said?"

"Listen," he tells her, "you seem like a really nice girl, and I'm not really a particularly nice guy."

She laughs and takes him by the arm, and he's not sure whether he's glad that she did or if he wants to vomit because of it. "Clearly if you were a nasty guy, you wouldn't tell me. But if you have to go, that's fine. I've really enjoyed meeting you." She takes his hand in her and pulls a small stick out of a pocket. It's too small to be a wand and he doesn't know what it is. She presses down on one end and brings it to his hand and scribbles something on his hand in black ink: "Emma: 44 20 77301234".

"Give me a call sometime, if you want. We could catch a movie and go for dinner, or you could come over to my place if you wanted" _is there an offer somewhere there?_ "my roommate's a huge dork for Orlando Bloom, maybe we could borrow _Troy_from her and lampoon it for all its worth."

"Oh, ok," he says stupidly, looking at the number written on his hand. He smiles at her, because he doesn't know what else to do, "that sounds like fun." _He doesn't know what the hell it sounds like_. And she smiles at him deeply and he knows that she wouldn't smile at him like that if she knew what he was, and then out of nowhere, she leans in and kisses him. Not on the lips, at least, but a soft peck on the cheeks, and he likes it and it revolts him, and he feels dirty. Dirty, but interested. But no. Because this is exactly what he and his Father are trying to stop.

The girl, _Emma_, leaves and smiles. He looks down at his hand, and wonders what the number means. He's certain Hermione would be able to tell him, but he's not sure he wants to know. He's not sure what he'd do if he knew what the number meant, and he's more than certain that he doesn't want Hermione to know how he got that number. And so he makes up his mind, and because he can't use his wand here and he hasn't got any money, he spits into his hand and starts rubbing the number off. Halfway through he regrets it and looks at his hand, trying to commit the number to memory.

By the time he gets back home he can't remember the number and he can't read it either. Which is a pity, maybe, because the girl really was pretty, and nice, and you can get pretty and nice and magical, but not if you're him. Not that it should matter, because he has Pansy, and he's going to marry her.

Oh God. He's home and Pansy's in Provence and Father's probably having crumpets with "Mother." He should have stayed in the pub with the girl. (Emma?) She probably would have paid for a few more beers.

But, to his surprise, Father isn't having crumpets with the Portrait. In fact, he isn't having crumpets at all and the Portrait isn't even there.

"Father, what happened to Mother's portrait?" he asks.

"I had her moved to the attic," Father responds noncommittally.

"Why?"

Father shrugs but doesn't look up.

"Father, your hands, are they bleeding?"

Father extends his arms to him, and he can see that not only are his hands bleeding, they're _ragged_. Father's hands, which despite everything had maintained their aristocratic perfectness without so much as a wand blister are torn to shreds.

"What the hell happened to your hands?"

"Well, I couldn't very well entrust a _house elf_ to move your Mother, now could I? You know how tremendously stupid those creatures are. So I moved her myself. It's a fairly heavy painting, and large, and the frame is a bit too baroque." Father shrugs.

"And you couldn't wait, or use your wand?"

"No. I'm afraid it couldn't wait."

"Let me fix your hands then."

Father pulls his hands away and looks up at him, sadness in his eyes. "You will forgive me won't you?"

"Yes, now give me your hands."

"But, will you really?"

"Of course. Why do you keep asking?"

"I just want to make sure that you really will forgive me."

"I already have. I already told you. Would I lie to you?"

"No you haven't, and you're my son."

"Of course I already told you."

"But really, you will forgive me?"

"Yes, yes, yes."

"For everything?"

"For everything. Father, you're my Father and I love you. Now give me your hands so that I can mend them for you or else they'll scar, and what a pity that would be. Mother always loved your hands."

"You manipulatively little bastard," Father says, but he almost smiles and he does give his hands over to Draco.

"Well, you know Father, I am your son," he smiles a bit as he fixes up Father's hands and soon they're good as new.

"That you are my son; that you are."

- - -

"So, what did you do today?" Father asks pleasantly over dinner.

"Oh, went for a walk. Thought about Pansy. She's in Provence you know."

"No I didn't know. You are rather fond of Pansy, aren't you?"

"She's a good match, smart enough, pretty enough, and from one of the few good families left."

"A wife shouldn't be 'pretty enough,' she should be beautiful. She should be the most beautiful woman in the room."

And suddenly he's thinking of Emma, _and who did she remind him of?_ "Aunt Bellatrix was prettier than Mother. In fact, I think the black sheep of the family was prettier than Mother."

"You're only saying that because she's your mother, and as such, you aren't allowed to find her attractive. You probably think I'm a fat old fogey and there's probably nothing more disturbing for you than the idea that you're Mother and I passionately made love all over the manor house when you were away at school."

He doesn't quite know how to react to that gratuitous bit of information, so he doesn't. "So, how's the Marriage Law project going?"

Father puts down his spoon. "Interesting that you should ask. Things at the moment are complicated."

"How so?"

"Well, Miss Granger and I have agreed on our course of action, and we've meticulously gone over the details not only of the law, and what a stupidly written law it is, and the politics of who is sponsoring it and who is against it and who can be bribed and who can be intimidated and who will listen to her and who will listen to me. Young Percy Weasley, in an unexpected evolution away from his degenerate father has been most useful in all of this."

"So what's the problem?"

"Miss Granger and I have both been invited to the Wizengamut's meeting on the Law, and we'll be presenting together, but the Wizengamut is meeting on Thursday."

"So?"

"So, Miss Granger works on Saturday every week because Thursday is the only day when the Illustrious Harry Potter is allowed to receive visitors."

"I don't understand, you're telling me that Hermione's going to screw up her chance to confront the Wizengamut just because it conflicts with her weekly visit to Potter?"

"In a word, yes. Wouldn't you? If your Mother were alive, but insane and in pain, and I was gone off in a quest to find some cure for her, leaving you with nothing but your work and a handful of silly crusades, wouldn't you think twice about not visiting your Mother? For obvious reasons I'm not allowed to visit Harry Potter, but it's my understanding that the madness which plagues him subsides, just a little bit on Thursdays when Miss Granger spends the whole day with him reading him the Quidditch articles from that week. One must be careful with the young and the infirm. Potter has no order in his mind, but the weekly visits do give him order in his life. It's impossible to predict how he'd react if Miss Granger were to neglect him. And of course, Miss Granger is a Gryffindor at heart. I think she'd be quite useless to me if she were to spend the entirety of our audience with the Wizengamut reeling with guilt."

He can hardly believe his ears. "So, she won't come?"

"I don't think so. I don't think I need her. Well, I do, but just her name. And of course, Miss Granger knows just how interested I am in stopping this Law from being passed. I've spent enough time in her office over the past few weeks that people will know our collaboration is in earnest."

"And it's impossible to move the Wizengamut's meeting, or use a time-turner, or something?"

"You know that not even Albus Dumbledore could possibly permeate the Ministry bureaucracy. And don't think we haven't discussed the latter. Time-turners are expensive, and Miss Granger won't accept any money from me and I can't purchase a time-turner to lend her without filling out even more paperwork than it would take to move the Wizengamut's meeting. It's actually barely worth filling out the forms for a new wand, you know."

"So, what are you going to do?"

"What else can we do? She's going to spend the day with Potter, just like she always does and I'm going to represent the both of us in front of the Wizengamut."

- - -

It's Thursday and they're taking the carriage to the Ministry. He won't go in, _can't_, but he wants to accompany Father anyway.

"Why did you move the Portrait?"

"Because she wasn't your Mother, but she looked like your Mother, and I didn't want her to see. You will forgive me, won't you Draco?"

"Of course Father." Father's almost back. If only he'd stop asking for forgiveness. He hopes that all will go well today, even if Granger is being a stupid Gryffindor and going to see a crazy invalid who probably won't even know she's there instead of joining his Father before the Wizengamut.

- - -

Father is the last one out of the Wizengamut meeting room. He walks slowly, with a codex in one hand and the other hand thrust deep into his pockets. His heart sinks to the pit of his stomach and he curses Granger—she really should have been there.

"You will forgive me, won't you?" Father asks him softly.

"The law passed."

"Almost unanimously. You will forgive me?"

"Of course Father. I've told you again and again, I forgive you for everything. Besides, it's not your fault. I'll just have to go to France and marry Pansy immediately."

"I'm afraid the law goes into effect immediately and you cannot leave the country, or else our family's property will be forfeit; our case is especially complicated, given our current legal status."

"What! That wasn't in the draft of the law I read."

"No, it was an amendment added today."

He brings his hands to cover his face. Suddenly he feels weak and he thinks he might vomit. "Then, I'm going to have to marry a Mudblood, or at very best a Half-blood?"

"Look on the bright side, at least it won't be Pansy."

Father truly has gone insane. This was a bad idea. Better to have left him with his talking Portrait of Mother than to break his mind entirely. "What are you talking about?"

"Come now Draco, you don't really love Pansy. You don't even like her, I don't think. She's just an easy girl and a Pureblood, but she isn't pretty and she isn't clever.

"Granger is at least clever."

He can't believe his ears. Surely this is a dream. He'll wake and he'll be in Hogwarts in his green sheets and his Mother will still be alive and Potter will be sane and Weasley will be there, and it'll be _fine_.

"Granger is engaged to Ron Weasley; he's a Pureblood. She's exempt from the Marriage Law."

"Not according to Amendment 24," Father hands him the codex and he turns to the back to find the article in question.

"_Once an engagement between a wizard or witch of pure wizarding ancestry and a wizard or witch of Muggle ancestry of the opposite sex has been contracted, the marriage between the parties must take place within the span of two years' time. If the parties fail to marry within the allotted time, the engagement will be decreed null and void…_"

His blood freezes over with horror and he looks up at Father. "Weasley's been missing for years now, it may very well me more than two years before he returns."

"It doesn't matter much. Keep reading."

"_At which time, the family of another wizard of pure wizarding ancestry may propose an engagement to the witch of Muggle ancestry, who may only refuse the new proposal if another groom of pure wizarding ancestry can be found and will marry her within two weeks of the proposal. Likewise, any marriage mandated by this Marriage Law must be consummated within the space of a fortnight, or else an annulment will be mandated by the Ministry of Magic without any possibility of appeal. This paragraph allies retroactively to all engagements and marriages contracted before the passing of this Marriage Law which have yet to be consummated._"

"It's a sloppily written bit, but it'll do what it's intended to do."

"The whole Marriage Law was your idea? Wasn't it?" How to describe how he feels? Used, betrayed, frightened, sadly not surprised."

"Of course it was, but it's so hard to bribe good help these days and the original draft would have been useless for my purposes. I could never have done it without your help and that of _Miss_ Granger."

"But, but why?"

"That Mudblood wench is the most dangerous woman in wizardom. I'm very sorry Draco, but it was quite necessary, and you will forgive me, I'm quite certain of that. Now let us go home. It's been a long day and I suspect we will need our strength to face the Mudblood bitch's wrath when she realizes she shouldn't have trusted me."

**Author's Notes: **Wow, this chapter's long for this story: 6380 words, or just over 14 pages on MS Word. I'm not sure how I feel about it. It probably should have been split up int several chapters, but I wanted to keep the structure of the Introduction. Next chapter will be another Interlude, and then Introduction, Part III (and that's it for the Introduction).

I was surprised to learn that Draco's been drowning his sorrows this long. Also, I was very surprised to see him go out into Muggle London, but less surprised to see him interested in a Muggle named Emma. (Three guesses who she's supposed to look like). I think all in all, the point was to make him very confused. The result is that I'm confused about how to feel about him, because in parts of this chapter he's so pathetic, and then he goes on his little Pureblood supremacist rant. And then he's out in Muggle London, and well, it's hard not to feel sorry for the guy, his life sucks.

This week is midterms for me, which means I'd be especially grateful for your reviews.


	21. Interlude 2

**Title: **And All the King's Horses  
**Genre: **Mystery, Angst  
**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione  
**Rating: **T

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. This work is for fun, not profit.

**Summary:** After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.

**Author's Notes: **Umm... Alternate title: In which at least one character does not mind the current state of affairs

**Interlude**

**In which a man confesses his sins and finds no absolution**

This is ridiculous. It's like something out of bad pulp fiction. She should know. She _writes_ bad pulp fiction. Of course, she passes it off as news, because bad pulp fiction sells, but at least _she_ knows the difference between fiction and reality. Apparently that's the difference between herself and her anonymous stranger, but she's been promised a nice juicy story, and if he can deliver, well then, that's all that really matters.

Still. Just because a story is seedy, it doesn't mean the pub needs to be seedy too. And talk about seedy. There are _knives_ stuck into the wall (what kind of delinquent wizard relies on a _knife_?) the floor is red and sticky with what (thankfully) looks like cheap (and shitty) wine, and of course, there's the requisite lechers and gaudy barmaid. Now, who amongst these debased delinquents is her informant? A man stagers over to her... maybe it's him? No. By the place where his hand is right now, she doubts he's lucid enough to know who she is. An unfriendly smile plasters itself on her face as she sticks her wand to the man's groin.

"Now dearie, I would suggest moving your hands and going back to your drink unless you want to read in the _Prophet_ tomorrow about how your little parts rolled all over the dirty floor."

And of course, because a wizard who's sober enough to walk is sober enough to get the message when a witch threatens his manhood with her wand, he does as he's told and runs the hell back to the bar. She looks around the room, and then she spots him. In the back of the room there's a man sitting by himself at a table, nothing suspicious about him, unless you count the fact that he's completely obscured by a cloak, trying his best to look suspicious, and _reading_. The most suspicious-looking man in the whole place is apparently _doing_ _his homework_. And that, more than any dark cloak is what makes him suspicious.

So she scurries over to his table and sits across from him. The light is to his back, so that he can read, but she can't make out his face in the dark hood. He takes out a silver pocket watch and looks at the time. "You're late," he comments slowly.

"Oh my," she says, instead of all the witty comebacks that could come to her mind, because of all people she was not expecting _him_. Though the reading really should have given him away. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"Meeting an illustrious reporter to give her the scoop of the century."

"Unless Harry Potter's been cured and You-Know-Who is back again and the two of them are engaged to get married, I doubt that. What are you drinking?"

He looks at the glass. "Scotch? I think?"

"Why?"

"I have a drinking problem."

"No you don't.'

"Yes, I do."

"No dearie, you don't. If you had a drinking problem you would know that that's sherry, not scotch."

"They wouldn't let me sit without ordering something."

"And they laughed when you asked for orange juice, and brought you this instead."

"I didn't ask for orange juice."

"What was it then, milk?" she asks, and laughs when he doesn't answer. "Seriously, what are you doing here?"

"I want to blow the whistle on the Minister of Magic."

"Do you now? You know, I don't think there's a single interesting thing I could write about the Minister of Magic without being laughed out of town."

"He has a drinking problem."

"No, he doesn't."

"He frequents the seediest of pubs."

"I'm sure. There's nothing like the fumes of bad alcohol and human fluids to allow one to concentrate on paperwork."

"He has a muggle mistress and a passel of squib bastards."

"Important men always have mistresses and we no longer live in an age where intercourse with a muggle would be considered scandalous. But in any case, that doesn't matter because the Minister does not have a mistress, muggle or magical, and I'm willing to bet my reputation as a journalist that he doesn't have any children, legitimate or not."

"Why not? The Minister of Magic could very well have a drinking problem, hang out in the worst establishments of Knockturn Alley, and have a sordid affair."

"The Minister of Magic, as everyone knows, is a stickler for the rules, as straight an arrow as they come, and he does not know the difference between scotch and sherry."

"Well then, he's an uncultured swine who doesn't know the difference between scotch and sherry."

"The Minister of Magic is a Weasley, of course he's an unculturred swine, it's what makes him a man of the people. 'Minister of Magic: Asks for milk gets sherry, thinks it's scotch.' Oh yes, there's a headline there. I doubt even the _Quibbler_ would publish that story."

"You're good at destroying people, Ms. Skeeter, won't you destroy the Minister?"

"Call me Rita. Why are you doing this Percival? Can I call you Percival?"

"Percy. Call me Percy. No one's called me Percy in years."

"What do your friends call you?"

"I haven't got any friends."

"Well that must certainly be your own fault. I know many people who would love to be your friend."

"Yes, and I'm certain they're all Slytherins."

"Well, of course. But beggars can't be choosers. And besides, what's wrong with Slytherins? You're practically one yourself. Now tell me Percy, why should I help you destroy the Minister?"

"He's corrupt and unspeakably cowardly."

"No different from the last four hundred Ministers of Magic. But you must admit that he's at least competent, and that enough is a virtue to recommend him."

"I don't want to be Minister of Magic any more."

"So quit."

"I... I can't.

"Lucius Malfoy." Suddenly there's a hint of hope in his voice: "I take bribes from Lucius Malfoy you know."

"Even if that were true, Lucius Malfoy is a significant stockholder of the_ Daily Prophet_, and it would be extremely stupid of me to try and publish something accusing him of bribing the Minister of Magic."

"He owns everything, doesn't he?"

"Of course he does. How else do you think he's stayed out of Azkaban? But I think I understand now. You don't want to be Minister of Magic anymore. Probably because of Lucius Malfoy; but you can't just leave the Ministry, definitely because of Lucius. But on the other hand, if _I _were to write an exposé on the sordid crimes of Minister Weasley, public outcry would be such that he'd have no choice but to resign, and Mr. Malfoy would have no choice but to admit that it wasn't your fault... How very two-faced of you, but not quite cunning enough. Surely you must realize that Lucius Malfoy isn't the sort of man who lets his toys just walk away from him when they are no longer of any use to him. No, Lucius Malfoy is the sort of man who enjoys using people until they're useless, and then destroys them just so no one else can play with his toys. The way Lucius works, if you're deep enough to want out, chances are your in it to your ears and there's no way out. You're screwed either way.

"Me on the other hand, I have no quarrel with Lucius, and as far as I know, he has no quarrel with me. It'd be extremely unwise on my part to ruin his little toy. I don't need enemies like Lucius Malfoy. And besides, I _like_ old Lucius."

"How can you say such a thing of such a man?"

And she shrugs as if though she doesn't care, because quite frankly, she doesn't. "He tamed the shrew."

"I'm sorry?' He asks, and she can't help but thinking that even here, the idiot Minister of Magic is such a stickler for the rules that he finds the need to be polite.

"He tamed the shrew. He's taken a horrid little mu—ggle-born wretch and turned her into the most delightful of hostesses."

"You can't possibly mean that," he says, and she's sorry she can't see his face.

"Oh, but I do. I despised Hermione Granger. The obnoxious know-it-all wretch very nearly ruined my life. Hermione Malfoy on the other hand, she's a delight."

"You don't know what he's done to her. I wouldn't wish that fate on the worst of my enemies."

"What has he done to her?" and she hopes she doesn't sound too eager, because while she can't publish this story, she does have a certain insatiable hunger for rumors, which is how she ended up writing in the first place.

He sinks his head into his hands. "I... I don't know. I don't know if it's dark magic or muggle psychology or Stockholm Syndrome, but he's destroyed her, he's destroyed her completely. That woman, I don't know who she is, but she's not Hermione. That woman is some sort of parody in the worst of taste with the same name and face, but it isn't the girl I knew. The girl I knew, the girl my brother loved, she was bright and brave and she should have become a bright and beautiful woman, a brilliant woman, brave and bright, not... not _that_. You might even say he's shattered her very soul.

"And he makes me sit next to her at every Christmas dinner. Just to remind me, remind me of what I've done." He looks up, the hood falls and now she can see his pale face and the dark circles under his eyes. "But it wasn't my fault. It was the law, dammit, the _law_. And how could I possibly stand against the Law when it was the _law_?"

"That's your problem," she answers, "You don't know the difference between rightfulness and lawfulness. How ever did the Hat put you into Gryffindor?"

"I begged it to."

Whatever she was expecting, it wasn't that. "Really? _Begged_? That's rather a strong word. Why?"

He shrugs. "I was eleven." As if though that explains everything away. "I suppose, that when I was eleven, the world seemed simple. There were three classes of people: the heroes, the villains, and everyone else. The heroes were all in Gryffindor."

"The villains in Slytherin, and the rest of the people didn't matter. And you wanted to be a hero, did you? Always such ambition, and it's taken you far, that ambition has, hasn't it? Where did the hat want to put you?"

"I don't remember."

She smiles. "Now that is a patent lie. Don't bullshit me Percy, I know grade A manure when I see it. But let me see if I can't guess. I think I'm getting a picture of you. Not Hufflepuff. A Hufflepuff wouldn't follow a law blindly if it meant hurting people he loved. You have the ambition for a Slytherin, but not the stomach for it. You're willing to do what you have to to get what you want, but you're not really capable of living with yourself. Goods ill-gained aren't good. The ends justify the means until you attain those ends and you weight them in the balance. No. What makes me a Slytherin isn't that I'm willing to drag the good names of innocent people through the mud just to sell a story; it's that I'm willing to drag the names of innocent people through the mud just to sell a story and I have no problem sleeping at night.

"So Ravenclaw?"

"Ravenclaw is for nerds."

Again not what she was expecting. "And that was a problem, for you, I mean?"

He looks down into his glass of sherry and swirls it around a bit, brings the glass to his lips and then doesn't really drink from it. He shrugs again. "My older brothers were awesome. My father and mother were both Gryffindors. Hell, my younger brothers were Fred and George. Do you know how much crap I took from them for being a prefect? Do you know how much crap I would have taken for being in Ravenclaw? I wasn't good at quidditch. I was good at school, yes, but so were Bill and Charlie. I wasn't clever or charming like Fred and George. I wasn't a girl like Ginny. Oh God! Ginny. My poor little sister. I wasn't Harry Potter's best friend."

"And yet, you've out-shined them all, Mr. Minister."

"And it isn't good enough. My fucking father won't even acknowledge that I'm alive. What a fucking waste of time. I might as well just have told the Hat to put me in Slytherin from the outset and spared us all the trouble."

"The Hat wouldn't have put you in Slytherin."

"Ravenclaw, whatever."

"So, what are you going to do now?"

"Well, if you won't destroy my reputation, I suppose I shall have no choice but to not resign in shame. I'll keep on being Minister of Magic until I get voted out of office, which given the size of Lucius' campaign contributions isn't likely to be any time soon, and I'll keep on going to Christmas parties at Malfoy Manor."

"And in the interim, you'll finish your paperwork?"

"Oh, this?" he nods his head down to the paper in front of him. "It's done. I would have finished it even if I did have to resign in shame. You know, if you told the world I had a drinking problem, my mum might actually write me a letter."

"Your drinking problem is that you don't know the difference between scotch and sherry, but can I ask you a question?"

"Whatever."

"Hermione is married to Draco Malfoy..."

"Yes."

"And that's a legally valid union."

"Yes."

"So, you support it?"

There's a pause, and she can see the cogs turning in his head. Finally he nods weakly.

"What do you plan on doing once your brother returns?"

"You know what the truly pathetic thing is? I pray every night that he never will."

"You really are an unspeakable coward. I think you've shaken my entire faith in the Hogwarts sorting system." She reaches over to his side of the table, takes his glass and downs it all in one quick motion. It's not that the evening hasn't been interesting, but it hasn't been profitable, and she still has some lies to go make up. "See you around Percival?" she asks as she stands up.

"I'd like that," he looks up at her, and the candlelight catches in his eyes.

"You poor kid," she runs her fingers through his full red hair, and leaves.

**Author Notes: **This came out very strangely. I'm not really sure how I feel about Percy... Although, I've noticed that alcohol plays a rather important role in this story. We've seen that Draco's been drinking quite a lot of it, Pansy too, and let's not forget Scorpius (although it was kind of shoved down his throat). Eh. I don't really drink. Hopefully that doesn't show too much here.

Reviews would be all kinds of wonderful, especially since the next chapter will probably be really, _really_ long.


	22. Chapter 22: Intro III Part 1

**Title: **And All the King's Horses  
**Genre: **Mystery, Angst  
**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione  
**Rating: **T (But mostly because if The Dark Knight isn't R, then I really don't know what R means... Or M. Whatever)

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. This work is for fun, not profit.

**Summary:** After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.

**Author's Notes: **This is a weird and trippy chapter. The public domain is heartily abused, but with good reason. For the most part it _should_ get easier to read as you get farther down. If you can't read ancient Greek, Latin, Hebrew, or Italian, don't worry, neither can I. There are endnotes to be had.

**Introduction, First Part of the Third Part  
In which our hero is lost and found**

It's cold and it's dark. Somehow, he thinks that it might be important. Or it might have been important. Or it might become important. He doesn't know. He can't really think—it's so cold. And that's almost certainly important; that he can't think, that is. Though, the cold might be important too. And the darkness. Maybe.

He thinks that he remembers his hands hurting. But they don't hurt right now, so maybe he imagined it. His lungs do hurt still, every time he takes a breath. So he'll stop breathing. What a simple solution. Why didn't he think of it before? Because he's stupid. Stupid and useless. Yes. Yes. Useless, not like… Stupid not like… One last breath, let it all out, and then he can rest. No one will miss him.

Not like…

Not like who?

-WHOM_-_

Of course she would correct him. Because she's smart and beautiful, and… and… who is she?

This… _this_ IS important. He knows it. He knows it's important. So terribly important he could burst. Burst from the complete and utter urgency of the matter. There is nothing more important in this world or the next or the one he's just left (left?). His heart is awake now, trying to get enough… enough what? Red stuff. Gryffindor? What? No. Red stuff to that thing in his head so that he can remember.

Remember her. Remember her and… Who else needs to be remembered?

Oh. Of course. _Him_. That's what this is all about. _Him_.

Oh God. Oh God! Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgodohgodohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod! _Oh God!_

_I assure you, that One has nothing to do with this place._

It's cold and it's dark.

- - -

"This book is dangerous. Whatever it is that you think you want, it isn't worth it."

"But it is," he answers, and begins to read.

- - -

It's cold and it's dark. Somehow, he thinks that it might be important. Or it might have been important. Or it might become important. He doesn't know. He can't really think—it's so cold. And that's almost certainly important; that he can't think, that is. Though, the cold might be important too. And the darkness. Maybe.

- - -

_How interesting. No one has sought me in such a long time._

"That can't possibly be true."

_'So?'_

"You're a liar."

_Of course I am. I **always** lie.  
But, am I lying right now? How can you know?  
You should leave, you know. This isn't really a place for you.  
You're not smart enough, or powerful enough.  
That girl, she **might** have a chance.  
She's clever enough. Hmm. I do think I would rather like to meat her.  
Or is that meet her? I know. I'd like to meet her and then meat her. _

_You should go back, back to her, she **needs** you._

"No. She doesn't. And I will not go back until I've gotten what I came to get."

_Ah. Of course she doesn't need you.  
Who could possibly need something like you?  
Your friend. Yesssss. Your friend needs you.  
Of course, he wouldn't have needed you if you'd just been good enough in the first place.  
Tell me, **did you do it on purpose**?'_

"No. Of course I didn't!"

_Ah. The lady doth protest too much, I think. You did do it on purpose then._

"I didn't do it on purpose. Of course YOU would think the worst of me."

_But you did do it…_

"That's not what I meant!"

_Then why did you say it?_

"I didn't say it."

_Then why did you protest it?_

_You really aren't very bright, are you?  
Were Mommy and Daddy very disappointed in you?  
Oh. I see. Well that is interesting.  
Ordinary child, and last of the bunch.  
Of course they weren't disappointed,  
they were too busy to notice you.  
But that girl. **That** girl… she did notice you.  
How ever did you get her to notice you?  
She didn't, did she?  
I can't believe that she would have._

_She probably noticed **him**.  
Well then, that gives us a motive.  
**That's why you did it.  
**You **did** do it on purpose.  
How delightful._

_You might just be worthy enough to pass.'_

"NO!"

_Not worthy? But interesting, surely, that much at least.  
Come then, I'll enjoy destroying you, how devoted you must be to  
him that you would sacrifice yourself for him, what a worthless offering.  
Or maybe, you want to prove your worth, if you're a worthy sacrifice.  
That way, you'll be just as worthy as he is, and certainly good enough for her.  
You shouldn't bother. You'll never be good enough.  
Not for me, not for him, certainly not for her. What can you offer her?  
Can you offer her diamonds, a comfortable life?  
Can you offer her intellectual stimulation?  
All you can offer her is companionship, but she'd soon tire of that._

"I love her. Now shut up."

_My my, and you were being so polite. You say you love her. Let's see if that's true once I get done with you. ENTER._

- - -

The room is dark and he is tired. The room is dark and he must read. The room is dark and he is thankful, thankful because that at least means that he can't see the color of the thing on his hands. He can smell it's copper scent and feel its smooth and sticky texture, but he can't quite make out the color in the dim moonlight, so it isn't what it is.

The book is open, he takes a seat and begins to read.

_Ἄνδρα μοι ἔννεπε, Μοῦσα, πολύτροπον, ὃς μάλα πολλὰ  
πλάγχθη, ἐπεὶ Τροίης ἱερὸν πτολίεθρον ἔπερσε·  
πολλῶν δ' ἀνθρώπων ἴδεν ἄστεα καὶ νόον ἔγνω,  
πολλὰ δ' ὅ γ' ἐν πόντῳ πάθεν ἄλγεα ὃν κατὰ θυμόν,  
ἀρνύμενος ἥν τε ψυχὴν καὶ νόστον ἑταίρων.  
ἀλλ' οὐδ' ὧς ἑτάρους ἐῤῥύσατο, ἱέμενός περ·  
αὐτῶν γὰρ σφετέρῃσιν ἀτασθαλίῃσιν ὄλοντο,  
νήπιοι, οἳ κατὰ βοῦς Ὑπερίονος Ἠελίοιο  
ἤσθιον· αὐτὰρ ὁ τοῖσιν ἀφείλετο νόστιμον ἦμαρ.  
τῶν ἁμόθεν γε, θεά, θύγατερ Διός, εἰπὲ καὶ ἡμῖν. _[1]

No, that's not what it says. He tries again.

_Arma, virumque cano, Trojæ qui primus ab oris  
Italiam, fato profugus, Lavinaque venit  
Litora : multum ille et terris jactatus et alto  
Vi Superum, sævæ memorem Junonis ob iram ;  
Multa quoque et bello passus dum conderet urbem,  
Inferretque Deos Latio 1 : genus unde Latinum,  
Albanique patres, atque altæ moenia Romæ. _[2]

No, no, no. Dammit. What does it say?

_Nel mezzo del camin di nostra vita  
Mi ritrovai per una selva oscura  
Che la diritta via era smarrita._ [3]

He slams his hands on the desk. "Let me read! You know what I want. Let me read of magic!"

_וַיֹּאמֶר שָׁאוּל לַעֲבָדָיו, בַּקְּשׁוּ-לִי אֵשֶׁת בַּעֲלַת-אוֹב, __וְאֵלְכָה אֵלֶיהָ, וְאֶדְרְשָׁה-בָּהּ; וַיֹּאמְרוּ עֲבָדָיו אֵלָיו, __הִנֵּה אֵשֶׁת בַּעֲלַת-אוֹב בְּעֵין דּוֹר. _[4]

"Not this. This is useless to me, stupid book."

_מְכַשֵּׁפָה, לֹא תְחַיֶּה.  
Maleficos non patieris vivere.  
Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live._ [5]

What is this? He doesn't understand. Could he be wrong? Isn't this the book? He picks it up and as soon as his fingers touch he feels the substance covering his hands slide off of him, he sees it flow onto the book's page and it's with a mixture of sick fascination, horror, and revulsion that he sees the liquid crawl around the page until words are formed.

_Well, then, that does work rather well. Doesn't it?  
You've passed the first test.  
What brings you here? Never mind. Don't tell me.  
I'll know soon enough.  
Though I suppose I should give you a warning…_

_I am the way to the City of __Woe__.  
I am the way to a forsaken people.  
I am the way into eternal sorrow._

_Sacred justice moved my architect.  
I was raised here by divine omnipotence,  
Primordial love and ultimate intellect._

_Only those elements time cannot wear  
Were made before me, and beyond time I stand.  
Abandon all hope ye who enter here! _[6]

_All of that is a lie. Well, except for the last part.  
And some other parts.  
You don't want this.  
Go back. Go back to her.  
The price of what you seek is too high._

- - -

It's cold and it's dark. Somehow, he thinks that it might be important. Or it might have been important. Or it might become important. He doesn't know. He can't really think—it's so cold. And that's almost certainly important; that he can't think, that is. Though, the cold might be important too. And the darkness. Maybe.

He thinks that he remembers his hands hurting. But they don't hurt right now, so maybe he imagined it. Though come to think of it, he can't really feel anything with his hands. Probably good. Probably better not to feel anything than to feel pain. Probably better to not feel anything than to feel cold. Probably better to not feel anything than to feel tired. But, since he can't feel the cold, he'll take his gloves off. Yes, take them off, just to see that he still has hands (not that it matters much). It's hard. It shouldn't be so hard to take gloves off. But then again, he's the dumb one. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.

On his finger he has a ring. A ring. A ring. A pretty ring, and tied to that ring there's a string (string, ring; rhyme, lime; he's a poet and didn't know it). And the string is red, like the hair on his head, or the stuff on his hand, or that stuff on the land. And it's tied… it's tied… to… the ring, and another ring (and you can't rhyme ring with itself!) and that ring is on someone's finger. Yes. Someone's finger. But who? Somehow he thinks it's important. Or it might have been important. Or it might become important. He doesn't know. He can't really think—he's the dumb one. Now, if the smart one were here, she could tell him, but she's not here because she's on the other end of that red string.

Oh. Yeah.

_She's_ on the other end of that red string.

Hermione.

_Hermione. _

_Hermione!_

_Not anymore_.

"You, shut up. I have what I came for. I'm leaving."

_Suit yourself. Leave. If you can_.  
_  
The time for that was long ago._

"I can."

It's not cold anymore and the sun has risen so the room is clear now and he can see the room clearly. Before him is an old and dusty tome, opened. In dark brown letters that he knows were once bright red, the title reads:

_On the mattere of shattering soules  
First Parte of the Second Part  
HORCRUXES_

He can't take the book with him. He doesn't need to. He'll never be able to leave the book. But he has a bride to get to, and Hermione at least will make him warm again. She's already rescued him once.

- - -

Something is amiss.

The flat is cold. But that's normal. Everything is cold.

Something is amiss.

The flat is empty. Or, not empty, because there is still the furniture. The bed is made, the desk is fully stocked with paper and the inkwell's full of ink. The bookshelves are lined with books, some of them magical, many of them not. In the bathroom there's a pile of clean towels and an assortment of half-finished potions and body lotions. The alarm clock is set for 6:30 in the morning. A coat is hanging on the coat rack by the door and inside of it is a wallet and a strange little device which flips open and has little buttons with numbers and letters on it. It's early in fall, so even though he's cold, it would make sense for her to have left the coat, and the keys are nowhere to be found. All in all, it looks like she's just out for a walk. Except of course for the thick layer of dust on everything. Surely something is amiss. He'll have to go and find out what, but first he'll have to find _her_. Before he goes he casts a dusting spell on the place. Seriously, Hermione needs to stop thinking like a muggle. But this will keep the place clean for at least six months.

- - -

It's strange, so strange. No one recognizes him. Sure, he's not… _him_, but still, one would think, one might think…still, despite the lack of lighting-scars, despite not being brilliant or chosen, he had thought he'd be recognized. After all, isn't his bright red hair enough of a giveaway? Or is it that the hair is no longer bright, but dull and brittle?

No one seems to notice him, not a single one. And he sees people, people he knows he knows, people he knows know him, and yet, not a singly smile, not for him at least. It's as if though he's invisible to the crowd, but he knows he's not. Knows he's not.

And still, people whose lives he'd saved just hurry past him, huddling for an instant as if caught in a gust of cold.

Fine. Whatever. It doesn't matter. _She _will recognize him, she will greet him, she will smile. She will make him warm again. Now if only he could find her.

He sees a man selling papers, a new kiosk… he's only been gone a decade and they've changed everything. Olivander's has moved. Gringotts has a new building. His brothers' store… His brothers' store… that's where he'll go, of course. But first he'll buy a paper. The man doesn't seem to notice him when he appears to the kiosk. Doesn't look after him as he grabs a copy of the _Prophet_. He wonders if he could get away with just taking the paper. But there's no reason. None at all. And after all, that would be wrong, and that's important. At least, _he thinks_ it's important. So he takes the paper to the man and offers him the coins to pay.

The man looks up, startled, and almost jumps backwards, as if though he's just materialized out of nowhere. He takes the coins and looks at him intently, "Hey, aren't you…"

"Do you know where Hermione is?" He asks.

"Hermione?"

"You know. _Hermione_."

"Sorry sir, don't know 'er."

And he isn't sure what's stranger, to be called sir or be told by someone that they don't know Hermione. How can anyone not have heard of her? She's brilliant.

"Are you sure? She's pretty famous."

"No sir."

"Hermione. Hermione Granger."

"No, sorry, only Hermione I've 'erd uv's married and probably wouln't—

"No. It's not the same one. The Hermione I'm talking about is single. You're sure you haven't heard of her? She's pretty famous."

The man looks like he's going to say something else, but it's pointless. He just takes his paper and leaves. Behind him the man starts breathing into his fingers. So it's off to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Until he reads the headlines. It seems he has an appointment with the Minister of Magic.

- - -

He can't shake the feeling that the whole of wizarding Britain's gone to pot. The Ministry of Magic's security is apparently non-existent—no one's bothered to even ask him where he's going. And apparently, they've turned off the heating. Of course, that last part's probably Percy's fault. He always was rather draconian; probably figures it's good for work ethic. Probably lowers costs too, which probably lowers taxes. That's probably a good way to get yourself reelected.

How the hell did Percy get elected?

Seriously, who would vote for him?

He can think of at least fifteen better candidates, just off the top of his head. Shacklebolt_, t_hat's for sure. Hermione. Bill. Charlie. Hell, even Neville. But, at least it isn't Fudge. Or Malfoy. Damn snake. He wonders if those two are still out of Azkaban.

Now where's Percy's office?

"Excuse me," he asks a woman rushing past him, "Where's Percy's office?"

"Percy?" she blinks startled.

"Percy Weasley."

"Oh, yes, up three floors, seven doors down, all the way down the corridor. You can't miss it."

"Thank you."

She looks young. Probably just graduated from Hogwarts. That would explain why she didn't recognize him. He'll have to have a chat with Professor Binns. But that can wait. That will wait. First Percy, then Hermione, then Harry, then Binns.

And now, here he is. He doesn't bother knocking on the door. It's not like Percy's the sort of person who'd be doing anything indecent.

He know, immediately from the way that Percy moves that it's the noise that alerts him to his intrusion. His brother looks up, and for a moment it's almost funny—his own brother looks right past him, confused. And then he clears his throat and Percy's eyes are drawn to the source of the noise, and finally remembrance dawns on his face.

"Ronald!" and that's a genuine look of happiness.

Thank God.

_Oh, don't thank Him just yet…_

"Shut up!"

A shade of terror passes over Percy's face. "Ron?" He asks softly, and he wonders if it's so obvious that something's not quite right.

But Percy won't understand, and it's nothing he can't handle, so instead he smiles up at his big brother. "So, you finally made it to the top, eh?"

And the shade is gone from his brother's face, replaces with warmth. "Oh, Ron, so good to have you home."

"I stopped by Hermione's flat. She wasn't there."

"Oh… Hermione's moved."

"I see." Something isn't quite right with that. He thinks it might be important. Or might have been, or might become, or something.

"Have you got it? Have you found it?"

"Always business with you, right? But yes. I've found it. I know what's wrong with him, and I know how to fix him. I just need to see Hermione first. I'm not strong enough to do it by myself, and I need her level head to think things through."

"Think things through?"

"There is… an unexpected… complication. I'm not quite sure how to deal with it. But Hermione will know."

"What is that? Can I help you?"

"No. It's nothing. Nothing important—

_How adept you have become at lying.  
To your own brother, even. _

"Nothing that need concern you. In fact, the less you know, the better."

"Oh. Well listen Ron, you should go see Mum… She, she misses you."

"Oh yes. Mum. Why didn't I think of that?"

Percy presses a button on his intercom. "Marcy, cancel all of my appointments for the day."

"All of them, Minister? But you have an appointment with Mr.—

"Yes, yes, I'm quite aware. Tell him I'll reschedule. He can throw a tantrum for all I care. My brother Ron is back."

"Ron, Ron Weasley? The famous one? Has he found the cure for Harry Potter then?"

"Yes. Which of my brothers isn't famous? And yes. Now cancel all of my appointment. I will be out of the office for the rest of the day. You know what? Cancel all my appointments for tomorrow too. Don't owl me unless there's an escape at Azkaban, or something equally as dire."

"Very well sir, but what about Mr.—

"I already told you tell him I'll reschedule Tell him my brother's come home. I'm certain he'll understand." And with that, he lets go of the button and the line is dead. Percy turns to him and smiles. There's something not quite right about that smile. Or maybe it's just been so long since he's seen one. That's it. "I'll floo Mum ahead to let her know we're coming."

"Since when do we need to let Mum know we're coming home?"

"Well it's only proper."

"Same old Percy, always a stickler for the rules."

And there's that smile again.

"You know, Ron, you look a mess, we should get you dressed in something other than those rags. I ought to have something that fits you over at my place. Or we could go shopping if you like."

"I don't think Mum will mind."

"Well what about Hermione?"

"She's seen me much worse. Well, that's not true. But it's not the clothes that are the problem."

"No, no Ron, I won't have my own brother walking around in rags."

"The Minister must keep up appearances, eh? Alright. But then it's home to the Burrow, and immediately after that, I want to go see Hermione. And after that I have a very important appointment with Harry Potter. And you know, after that, I want to talk to Professor Binns. He is still teaching at Hogwarts, right?"

"Yes Ron."

_- - -_

"So this is where the Minister of Magic lives. Nice. A bit drafty."

"Normally it's quite cozy. The heating spell must be broken. So you like it?"

"Well, you have to understand, I've been going around swamps, caves, and ruins. Anything's nice by comparison."

"But, you do have to say that you're impressed, right?"

"I suppose. It's big though. You live here all by yourself?"

"Well, me and the houselves."

"Hermione wouldn't approve. I need to see Hermione."

"So you've said. But let's get you into some proper clothes first."

"Ok, but no frills, alright?"

"No frills Ron, I promise."

"Percy?"

"Yeah?"

"It'll be good going home."

"Yeah, it will be."

- - -

His own fucking mother looks past him. Of course, in her defense, she's his brother's fucking mother too. Everyone is too busy glowering at Percy to pay attention to him. He supposes it's only natural. He wonders what Percy's done this time. Percy was always an ass. It was his own special superpower.

_But unto Cain and to his offering he had not respect. And Cain was very wroth, and his countenance fell. _[7]

"What?"

_You know the story…  
No? You really are a dunderhead.  
**She **would know the story. _

_And Cain talked with Abel his brother: and it came to pass, when they were in the field, that Cain rose up against Abel his brother, and slew him._ [8]

"Shut up," he orders in a whisper.

_But who is Cain and who is Abel?  
How many brothers did you say you had?  
Can't be Abel, now can you? Or else, how will you ever see your precious little mudblood?_

"SHUT UP!" he orders in a scream.

That gets their attention. His mother and his father and Fred and George and Bill and Charlie and Fleur and Angelina, and some others whose names he doesn't know (but not Ginny, and not Harry, and not Hermione) they all turn to see him, and now they notice him.

"Ron?"

"Mum?"

"Ron, Ron, my baby!" and his mother is running towards him. Running and running, tears streaming from here eyes, and now he's in her arms. She's holding him, so tightly, so warmly. The world could fall around him, and he would be safe. He knows. He's in his mother's arms, and everything. There is warmth and there is hope and there is silence. Finally, silence. For an instant, he's free—free from the past, free from Harry. For a moment, Hermione can wait. He could cry, almost, but his tears are frozen, and even his mother's hug cannot work miracles.

- - -

It's his father who brings the question up first. "So, Harry, can he be cured."

He looks up from the delightful cocoa and his eyes darken. "Yes. But at a price."

"What, what price?" Fred and George: in unison. Good old Fred and George.

"The Ministry will pay whatever it is. Harry Potter is the savior of the wizarding world, it's the least I can do."

He's about to say something, but he is interrupted.

Fred: "The Ministry."

George: "You."

And then together: "Because you're the one behind the Ministry. Right."

George: "Still, it works quite nicely, doesn't it? You look like you're helping out the famous Harry Potter."

Fred: "And then Harry Potter is indebted to your patron, isn't he?"

It doesn't really make any sense to him. He doesn't know what they're talking about. He stopped listening after Percy said he'd offer to pay. The cocoa is so warm and chocolaty. Each sip seems to give him strength, but it's not until he's done with the mug that he can look up.

"It's not that kind of price."

"Well why don't you tell us what the price is son?"

"It's a long story, and rather a lot more complicated. The circumstances of the end of the last war were not as they appeared and Dumbledore didn't know what the fuck he was talking about. Cleaning up his mess is going to take quite a lot of work. Very dark magics are involved. Pitch black. The sort you'd expect Voldemort to dabble in. Except, Voldemort didn't know what the fuck he was doing either, which is the whole problem. Isn't it funny? These great wizards? Arrogant, pretentious pricks is more like it. How the hell did I get stuck cleaning up after those two?" Then he looks up sweetly to his mother. "Mum, would you happen to have some chocolate cake, or cookies, or something?"

"I should give you a bar of soap to chew on, with language like that."

"Oh," he sighs contentedly, "You don't know how reassuring it is to hear that after clawing my way through Hell. But seriously mum, anything? A chocolate bar?"

"Very well, but only because you've lost so much weight. You know, just because you're off adventuring, it's no excuse to not take care of yourself."

He knows she means well, so he laughs. He feels much better once a large scoop of chocolate ice cream is place in front of him. It's a bit cold for his tastes, but its chocolate which more than makes up for it.

- - -

Three things he can't remember:

1-The names of his "new" nieces and nephews.  
2-The last time he ate a warm, home cooked meal. (Three courses!)  
3-Whether dinner was always this tense.

It's been a long, long time. It's probably just like it used to be. He's tired.

"Mum, that was the best meal I've had in my life. But I'm exhausted and I have a lot of work tomorrow. Can I sleep in my old room?"

His father smiles deeply and nods. In the candlelight he notices that his father's hair is thinner than he remembers, but still bright red. That's heartening. His own hair has long since begun to loose its color.

"I've kept it just like you left it," Mum takes him by the hand to his room, and there it is, just like he remembers it. Nothing has changed. His mother even has pajamas and fresh towels stocked in his chest of drawers. Little lions are embroidered on the bright red silk. These are new, but still familiar, and they fit. His mother doesn't need to leave or turn around as he gets dressed—she is his mother after all—and as he gets into the soft warm bed she pulls the covers up to his chin, just as she had done when he was growing up, and kisses him softly on the forehead.

"Sweet dreams."

"Thanks Mum. Listen, can you owl 'Ermione? Her flat was empty when I went to visit and I haven't had a chance to speak with her. It's important. About Harry. And about us. I miss her you know. She's like the light. Like the air. She's the world to me."

His eyes are closed now, and he just feels his mother's soft caress on his cheek.

Moments later he hears screaming. It doesn't wake him however. If screaming woke him, he'd never sleep. He's alone with his nightmares.

- - -

It's cold and it's dark. Somehow, he thinks that it might be important. Or it might have been important. Or it might become important. He doesn't know. He can't really think—it's so cold. And that's almost certainly important; that he can't think, that is. Though, the cold might be important too. And the darkness. Maybe.

**Endnotes: **

[1] The opening of the Odyssey in Ancient Greek.

[2] The opening of the Aeneid in Latin.

[3] Inferno I:1-3, the opening of The Divine Comedy, in Italian.

[4] Samuel 28:7, in Hebrew, concerning the Witch of Endor. For those unfamiliar with the story, Saul goes to consult a witch, asking her to raise the spirit of the late Prophet Samuel so that Saul may seek Samuel's counsel. This story was often cited by witch-hunters to prove the existence of witches.

[5] Exodus 22:18, (I think it might be a different number in the Hebrew Bible) in Hebrew, Latin (from the Vulgate) and English (King James). This was essentially the favorite part of the Bible of every witch hunter in Christendom. Unfortunately, I'm pretty certain it's a mistranslation.

[6] Inferno III:1-9, the inscription on the Gates of Hell. Ciardi translation.

[7] Genesis 4:5—Cain is jealous of Abel.

[8] Genesis 4:8—So Cain kills Abel.

**Author's Notes:** I debated on how many quotes to have. But I figured, what the heck, the evil book is as old as sin (maybe literally) and it wants to mindscrew anyone who reads it. You know, evil book and all. The second part of Intro III will be up soon, and it'll still be Ron's POV, it's just that this one was becoming unwieldy.

**On the selection of texts:** The Odyssey, the Aeneid, and the Divine Comedy all feature trips to the Underworld and prophesy. Furthermore, the Aeneid is a sort of sequel to the Odyssey and the Divine Comedy is a sort of sequel to the Aeneid. (Both the Aenied and the Divine Comedy are works of fanfiction!) The Biblical quotations are intended to be examples of "the Devil can cite scripture for his purpose." Also, I'm taking a course on the History of Witchcraft in Early Modern Europe, and some of that wouldn't stay out of this chapter.

OH, and if anyone can actually figure out in detail what's going on with Ron, there will be prizes. I'm looking for one key word in particular.

Reviews are love. Even if it's to tell me that I'm a pompous ass.


	23. Chapter 23L Intro III Part 2

**Title: **And All the King's Horses  
**Genre: **Mystery, Angst  
**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione  
**Rating: **T (But mostly because if The Dark Knight isn't R, then I really don't know what R means... Or M. Whatever)

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. This work is for fun, not profit.

**Summary:** After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.

**Author's Notes: **This takes off where the last one left off and should clear some things up._** Please note: this chapter contains a graphic depiction of facial mutilation. **_If you don't want to accidentally read it, PM me and I will either tell you what bits to skip, or email you an edited draft. In the next weeks I will probably be upping the rating for language and violence. It won't be all that much more violent than this chapter, but I feel like the situation will merit hard language and I don't feel comfortable with the story rating any more. If there's enough interest, I may make an LJ or something for a T-rated version of the story.

**Introduction, Second Part of the Third Part  
In which our hero, thought found, is still lost**

It's the smell of chocolate chip pancakes that wakes him from his long and weary slumber. He is old and his bones are cold. His hair is thin and going grey: thinner than his father's and greyer than his mother's. Nonetheless, the aroma of his childhood hangs heavily in the air, floods the house, enchants his senses and drives away the demon. He's been reading dark spells and now his knowledge of magic is unsavory, but he thinks he can remember Harry telling him once that mothers could weave strong magic out of love.

That must be it.

He's relying on a long-forgotten instinct as he walks down the stairs--tiptoeing not to avoid vampires, werewolves, inferi, dark wizards, giants, or wild dementors. No—he's tiptoeing with childish anticipation, like he used to every Christmas morning before Hogwarts, before the War, before the Quest, before the Book.

He catches sight of the table spread: chocolate-chip pancakes, coffee, hot cocoa, orange juice, apple juice, banana-nut muffins, oatmeal scones, warm milk, scrambled eggs, fried bacon—it's a veritable feast for breaking fast, more food than he's seen in years and more delightful a surprise than any gift Father Christmas could possibly have dreamt up.

"Mum?" he calls out incredulously, praying for all of this to be real. It must be real. It can't be just another illusion. No. It can't.

"Oh, Ron, you're awake. I've sent the girls to go get some strawberries."

"Those are the little red things with lots of tiny seeds in them, right?"

A strange look floats over her face and he's afraid she may be afraid, so he adds quickly. "It's been so long since I've had anything but stale bread and cheese—I don't think I can remember what strawberries taste like. Are they sweet, but tart? I know they go very well with cream. And chocolate." His eyes light up, "Oh! Mum! Can we please have chocolate-covered strawberries? Please? Please? Oh, please Mum!"

"Picked up quite a taste for chocolate haven't you?"

"Chocolate's the second best thing in the world for driving off black magic."

"Oh?" she raises an eyebrow, "and what's the first best thing?"

"Kisses from pretty girls who love you," he smiles and puffs out a cheek for his mother to kiss.

"Ronald Weasley, you ham!" but she kisses him anyway.

"I love you Mum."

There's a gust of wind, just strong enough to make him slightly cold. "It's getting chilly, isn't it?"

"Really? I'd say we're having warm weather for this time of year, but if you're cold, you can have something hot to drink—what'll you want, coffee, tea, cocoa?"

He smiles mischievously. "I think you know what I want, Mum."

"Hot chocolate then," she smiles as if disapproving, "You know Ron, you'll make yourself sick of that stuff."

"Eh. Maybe in a good fifty years or so."

She pours his chocolate into a large red mug and hands it to him. The chocolate is sweet and thick and warm, and he's sure, absolutely sure that there have got to be protective charms in it, because nothing else explains just how good and alive it makes him feel. He sits down and sighs contentedly.

"I assume we're going to wait for Dad and the others?"

His mother pours herself a cup of tea and sits down next to him. "Just your father and Fred and George and their girls. Your other brothers had to work. Bill had some sort of extremely important presentation he had to give to some American clients and Charlie was going to be here, but you know how it is when dragons are involved."

"What about Percy? He told his secretary to clear his appointments for today."

"Oh." Is his mother frowning? Or is he imagining things? It's probably not important. He's probably just being paranoid. And then, with that thought, he cringes, because he knows that venomous voice will say something

_But just because you're paranoid doesn't mean I'm not out to get you. _

OR

_See, something is wrong. You should have come back when I told you to._

OR

_Did you actually believe you were back home? I'll have fun with you yet. _

But, nothing comes. There's silence in his mind.

"I'm afraid," his mother's voice rings out, not as musical as it had been just now, but still, full of love, and surely that must mean that it's real, really his mother's voice because how can the Book know of things like love and compassion and kindness and all those things that are coming out of his mother's mouth right now?

"I'm afraid Minister Weasley overestimated the length of his leash."

"Oh god, don't tell me he actually makes him call you that!"

But his mother never answers that question, because the girls Molly and Ginny (but which is which? And which one belongs to Fred and which one belongs to George?) are back with the strawberries.

- -

His dad is the last to appear home, flooing in from the Ministry, and Ron isn't entirely sure if he's so glad to see him because he's glad to see him, or if it has more to with the fact that that means that now they can eat. He's snuck a handful of strawberries behind his mother's back, but what he really wants is one of those pancakes, and those are much harder to steal.

Father brushes off the soot and comes to join them at the table. Mum serves him first, because he's the guest of honor, and how strange is that, to be the guest of honor at his own home. It's awkward though, because he's almost certain he remembers that you're supposed to wait for everyone else to be served, but he's starving. Starving, starving, really starving. He caught a look of himself in the mirror. He looks worse than Harry had when he'd first gotten away from the Dursleys. He looks worse than Remus Lupin had in their third year, worse than Wormtail, and almost worse than Sirius. Of that generation, only James seems to have survived with his youth intact, and that's of course because he didn't survive. But none of them did, so what difference did 13 years or so make? Harry's probably still young. Hermione too. He's got Fred and George in front of him—they both look ten years younger than he does.

Come to think of it, he doesn't like strawberries. They're far too tart. Now he knows why people have them with cream or chocolate, but to be frank, it's probably a waste of chocolate.

Now, the pancakes on the other hand...

He takes a bite and smiles. "Mum, I dunno wha' you pu' inis, bu' i's great," and he knows you're not supposed to speak with your mouth full, but, well, he's forgotten. It's not really a big deal.

"I'm glad you like it Ron," his mother smiles.

"Ten years away from civilization, and the boy's forgotten all his manners," Fred laughs. He's trying to be funny, and apparently succeeding, since a giggle goes around. But in ten years away from civilization he's forgotten more than just his manners and he forgets to laugh.

"Mol, Gin, that's an excellent example of what you're not supposed to do at the table," George continues with a grin and both of the little girls giggle.

Now it seems like it's his turn to continue with the game, so he twists his lips up wildly and very forcefully puts his elbows on the table. "I guess I'm just incorrigible." He takes a sip of his hot chocolate.

"So, Ron," his father starts up in a distinctly alien tone that's all business. "I was speaking with... the Minister--

"He really does make you guys call him that doesn't he? Unbelievable. He would. Always did have a stick up his--

"Ron there are children here!" The look of outrage on George's face betrays the fact that he's kidding. Fred looks slightly sour, probably because he didn't think of it first.

"As I was saying," again, that stern tone, "the Minister and I both agree that it'd be for the best if you got around to helping Harry as soon as possible. He's already agreed to have a team of Aurors and Unspeakables under you, and he'd be willing to enlist the help of the Hogwarts professors."

"I don't need a team. I just need Hermione."

"But _why_ exactly do you need Hermione?" his mother asks, her voice full of concern.

_I told you so. I told you so. I told you so._

There it is. Faint, but there. He bites his lip to keep himself from yelling "Shut up."

"I'm not thinking straight. I need Hermione to help me figure out what's really going on. She'll tell me if the ideas floating around in my head are good ones or bad ones. I really can't trust myself with that. Besides, Hermione's already read up on the subject at hand. No point in getting other people involved."

"But Ron," Fred says, "why can't we help you? We can help you think things through, and if there's reading to be done, well, we're not _that _lazy."

"It's not about being lazy. Nothing to do with that at all. You don't understand. There's very dark magic at play here. Dark magic neither Voldemort nor Dumbledore understood."

"But if that's the case, how can you or Hermione understand it?" his mother asks.

"I hope Hermione won't understand it. I don't need her to understand it, I just need her to help me understand it."

"No offense Ron, but Hermione was smarter than you...you know, er, at Hogwarts."

"Yes. She's smarter than I am, and she loves me, and she's already familiar with the subject matter. Three traits that make her the ideal person. A fourth would be that she's Harry's friend."

"Yes, but Ron" George replied, "We all love you and we're all friends of Harry, and if we pool our efforts, I'm sure we'll be good enough."

_You could try. It might work. At this point it's probably your only option. _

"What?"

"We're just saying--

"Not you. I wasn't talking to you."

"Ron," his mum reaches out to him, "Ronald, who were you talking to?"

"Not you." He yanks away. "Not any of you. See? This is exactly why I need Hermione. I need her to tell me if the ideas in my head are mine, or if they're not mine, because if they're not mine, then that means they won't work, not like I want them to. Fixing Harry is dangerous and difficult. If I fuck up—I can fuck up very badly. Having Harry the way he's now would be better than fixing Harry the wrong way and I can't trust myself to know the difference."

"Ron, what do you mean you need to know if the ideas in your head aren't yours?" That no-nonsense attitude is gone, replaced with one of absolute concern.

"See? You don't understand. You don't understand anything at all. I mean that there's a distinct possibility that the things I'm thinking are lies. Are wrong. Aren't my thoughts at all. It's happened to me before. It's happened to Hermione. I know of three other people who can understand what it's like to ave your thoughts lie to you because they aren't your own. One is dead, one is insane, probably dealing with the problem on an unimaginably grander scale, and then there's Hermione. I need to see her. Only she can help. But it's more than that, I need to see her, because, all through my travels she's what kept me alive. I love her and every minute I'm away from her I die. Do you know what it's like to not be able to breathe, or see, or feel, all at the same time? I do! I do. Being away from Hermione feels like _that_."

_A touch for the melodramatic. Heh. I knew that. _

"And you, shut up!"

"Ron--

But it doesn't matter. He takes his half-empty mug of cocoa and goes back to his room, collapsing in his bed.

He's so cold, and he's tired. All he wants is to sleep.

- - -

It's cold and it's dark. Somehow, he thinks that it might be important. Or it might have been important. Or it might become important. He doesn't know. He can't really think—it's so cold. And that's almost certainly important; that he can't think, that is. Though, the cold might be important too. And the darkness. Maybe.

He thinks that he remembers his hands hurting. But they don't hurt right now, so maybe he imagined it. Though come to think of it, he can't really feel anything with his hands. Probably good. Probably better not to feel anything than to feel pain. Probably better to not feel anything than to feel cold. Probably better to not feel anything than to feel tired. But, since he can't feel the cold, he'll take his gloves off. Yes, take them off, just to see that he still has hands (not that it matters much). It's hard. It shouldn't be so hard to take gloves off. But then again, he's the dumb one. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.

His hands are wrong. Wrong color, wrong texture, wrong, wrong, wrong. All wrong. It's too dark to see just what color his hands are. But that's good. Better not to see than to see blood on his hands. Thick and red and slippery. His hands smell of copper. Strange that he can still smell.

On his finger he has a ring. A ring. A ring. A pretty ring, and tied to that ring there's a string (string, ring; rhyme, lime; he's a poet and didn't know it). And the string is red, like the hair on his head, or the stuff on his hand, or that stuff on the land.

No. Not a string. Not red like the hair on his head. It _is_ the hair on his head. But, his hair isn't that long. Or that red. He hasn't got a mirror, but he imagines that his hair isn't red, not very red, not any more, not in this place. But the hair is red and it's long, and where does it go?

He follows the hair, follows it, just to see where it leads.

It's long, long, very long, so he follows, follows, follows it. And finally, in the dark and in the cold he finds the other end of the string that isn't string. It leads to more hair, pretty, red and long. Messy and wet. It smells of copper and--

Oh God. Oh God! Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgodohgodohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod! Oh _God_!

Her face isn't a face. It used to be, but it isn't not any more. One ear is ruined, the other isn't there. The nose is broken and scratched. The hair is pretty. All the blood doesn't detract so much, since the hair was red to begin with. Pity the scalp comes away from the skull in some bits and the hair hangs loosely in some places. And then there are the cuts and the burns.

Nothing done with a wand. Fists, knives, Beater's clubs, hot pokers, molten wax—yes. Nothing a muggle couldn't do. Detached he finds himself wondering why. Why no magic? Somehow, he thinks that it might be important. Or it might have been important. Or it might become important. He doesn't know. He can't really think—it's so cold.

He notices suddenly that the girl is shivering. The cold recedes in the wake of a hard, hot horror. Her eyes are dead, but she is still alive. They're whole, untouched, unblemished, perfect, except for their utter brokenness. There is no soul behind those eyes, and still, there is life in that corpse.

The lips part, broken and bloody to reveal shattered and missing teeth. "I've told you everything I know. About Harry. About Ron. About Hermione. About the Order. Kill me."

"No, no, you didn't tell them anything," he sobs

_But how prettily she screamed for them. Surely that must count for something?_

"No, I was there. I heard you screaming all through the night. All that week I heard you scream and I heard Bellatrix laugh. And you didn't say a word... It's going to be ok Ginny. Your big brother's here for you. Your big brother's going to take you back to Mum and Dad, and Harry. Hold on sis, you've got to get back to Harry."

"I don't care about Harry. I don't care about Mum, or Dad. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me!"

"No. You're going to be ok. I know it hurts. But,

"KILL ME! Kill me, you bloody bastard. Kill me. If you ever loved me, you will kill me and go back to Hermione. I am dead. There is nothing you can do for me but grant me the release of death. Hermione is alive and she needs you."

"Hermione?"

Yes. Hermione. That's right. Hermione. On his finger he has a ring. A ring. A ring. A pretty ring, and tied to that ring there's a string (string, ring; rhyme, lime; he's a poet and didn't know it). And the string is red, like the hair on his head, or the stuff on his hand, or that stuff on the land. And it's tied… it's tied… to… the ring, and another ring (and you can't rhyme ring with itself!) and that ring is on someone's finger. Yes. Someone's finger. But who? Hermione, that's who. But the ring has a stone and the stone is black.

The stone is black.

That means Hermione's...

He wakes up screaming. His throat is raw and his eyes are stinging. His mother is above him shaking him. He was screaming in his sleep.

"Ron, Ron, it was just a bad dream."

He sits up and hugs her, holds her close to him and buries himself in her breast. "It wasn't _just_ a bad dream Mum. I was in _that _place, with it and with her. Oh God, Mum. She was alive. Dead _and _alive. And she wanted me to kill her. She begged for death, and her eyes were dead, and still she was breathing and talking."

"Who? Hermione?"

"No. Not Hermione, but Hermione too--

And he can't finish that sentence. Hermione is fine. He just needs to get to Hermione and everything will be _fine_.

"That's it. I need to talk to Hermione. She'll make everything fine."

"Ron..." he can't quite make out the sentiment in his mother's voice and eyes. He doesn't want to, doesn't need to.

"Hermione will make it fine, because only Hermione can make it fine, and if Hermione _can't_ make it fine, then nothing can, and nothing will ever be fine again. Everything needs to be fine. It isn't right now, but it needs to be, so Hermione needs to be able to fix it. Hermione will fix everything. And then together, we'll fix Harry, and it'll be like old times again."

His mother holds him, very close, very tight. They stay like that for—he doesn't know how long. Until he falls asleep. He wakes up the next day when the sun light creeps through the shutters. His mother is sitting in a chair by his bedside, only recently asleep. For the first time in years, he has slept without dreaming, except he doesn't dream any more. All his dreams are nightmares except for one, and that's the one that saves him.

- - -

Two weeks.

Two weeks he's been at the Burrow. His hair is still dull—he'll never get the color back, he knows—but his cheeks have filled out some. It's not so bad. Not so terrible. Now he's glad he didn't find Hermione at her flat. He's less frightening than he was. Not that he'd ever really be able to frighten Hermione, but still, he wouldn't want her to worry.

And his nightmares have gotten better. Fred and George are teasing him about needing a night light. Those two jokers never know when to stop. He doesn't tell them what he sees in his nightmares. It isn't funny, so why share.

Charlie and Bill have been around with their wives and daughters. Fred and George are in almost every day. Apparently Dad left the Ministry, something about Percy being elected Minister, probably makes sense, corruption charges and all that, and he's been working with Fred and George. Weasley Wizard Wheezes is making a fortune. They're thinking of going public, to raise capital and expand; they're already in talks with Gringotts to have them do the IPO—whatever that means. Hermione could probably explain it. It sounds like a bad idea to give up their control of the company, but he doesn't really know anything about finance.

He hasn't seen Mol and Gin again. Not since the breakfast. It's ok. They're six-year-olds. He still can't tell them apart.

- - -

A month. A month he's been back. This is Hell. This is a nightmare. He has to see Hermione. If he can see Hermione, then he will know that this is all real. But he can't see Hermione. Can't. Can't. Hermione. He needs to see her. _Needs_ to see her. Needs to see _her_. Needs _to see_ her. It's dark and it's cold, no matter how much chocolate he eats, no matter how much his mother loves him. It's all a lie. A lie. Nothing is real. It's all the Book. All in the Book. All in his head.

Frustration and panic well up inside him. There's a loud crash, and then his father finds him in the bathroom. The mirror is shattered, his hand is red and smells of copper.

"Ron, oh God, are you alright?"

"_Maleficos non patieris vivere,_" he mutters and looks up.

_How tragic. You've seen through my enchantment.  
You didn't really think I'd let you go home this easily, did you?_

"Ron, is that parsletongue?" his father asks, eyes gone wide.

"What a stupid trick. You bloody well know it's Latin. The serpent's speech sounds nothing like that. So, how do I make my way out of this one? There's no string here. No ring. It's dark and it's cold. Hermione, the answer's always Hermione. But you won't let me get to her. Of course. It's just like him, to do this. Make me kill my own fucking father."

"Ronald, what are you talking about? You've hurt your hand," the illusion of his father appears to be worried, for him, not for himself, but he knows better. He understands how these illusions work.

"You aren't my Father. You aren't real," his hand clutches around a shard of mirror, long and pointed. It'll do well enough as a dagger, and it doesn't matter that its cutting into his hand, because there's already blood on it.

_Oh Ronekins, don't. You'll regret it if you do.  
I know you will. It's enough you betrayed Harry and killed Ginny,  
are you going to add patricide to your list of sins?_

"Shut up!" he screams. "Shut up! I didn't do any of those things."

_But you might as well have. If it weren't for you, they'd both still be alive.  
What lovely children they would have.  
Two boys and a girl. James, Albus, and Lily. _

"What ridiculous names. Any idiot could have made them up."

_Want to hear something more ridiculous?  
Harry would have named a son after Snape.  
Albus Severus Potter.  
Still, you shouldn't kill your father.  
It's bad form for the sidekick.  
That sort of thing is normally reserved for the hero.  
And even then, it normally ends poorly,  
Kill your father and the Furies will haunt you for all eternity._

"I'm already haunted and that's not my father."

"Ron, put that down, something isn't right," but the form that claims to be his father isn't, and he's looking around now. Hasn't got a wand on him. That's rather stupid for an illusion.

_It's because it's not an illusion. But I'm tired of arguing with you.  
Go ahead. Don't listen to me. Kill him.  
See your precious Hermione.  
_

Illusions don't need wands. Will an illusion-dagger kill an illusion-father? Time to find out. It'll be something to tell Hermione later, when he's finally free, when he's with her.

His lips twist upwards into a feral grin. He readies his stance and aim's for the heart, ignoring the look of shocked betrayal on his father's stolen face. It's not his father he's killing. He's not killing anything, really.

"_Petrificus totalus!" _his mother's voice. He stops. Can't move. Falls to the ground like an unsupported statue.

"Arthur, what happened?"

"I, I don't know. I heard the mirror shatter and came up to see him. I think he slammed his fist into it. I came in and he looked at me with so much hatred, asked me something in..Latin, he said it was. I don't know what it means, but it sounded like a curse. He started talking to and yelling at himself, saying I wasn't his father and that he was going to have to kill me."

He starts to laugh. "Mum, is that really Dad?'

"Yes Ronald."

"And you really are my mother."

"Of course."

"Not an illusion? But really, Molly Weasley?"

"To the best of my knowledge."

"Can you prove it?"

"Oh Ron," she sobs and holds envelopes him in her arms.

"That was a stupid thing to do. I can move now and I still have a weapon in my hands. You really are my mum, aren't you?" He starts to cry. "Damn him. Damn him. Even when he's telling the truth he's lying. I'm so stupid. I'm so stupid."

"Who is him?" His father asks, looking worried that his son might have lost his mind. Why can't they understand that he hasn't so much lost his mind as much as he's found an extra one?

"The Book Dad, the Book. I know reading bad books is dangerous, I know. I'm stupid, but I'm not stupid. But it's _the _book on Horcruxes. If there was a way to fix Harry it was going to be in that damn book, so I opened its pages. And right enough, there was the answer. What was wrong with Harry. What Voldemort hadn't understood, couldn't have understood, along with all sort of awful dark magics. Magic so black it makes the _120 Nights of Sodom—_

"What?" his father asks incredulously.

"It's a muggle book. Imagine thinking book that's an avid reader. In any case, it makes that vile collection of tortures sound like the sweetest of fairy tales and Lord Voldemort like petulant child. Spells, curses and dark charms to shatter souls or steal them, destroy them... Voldemort must have gotten his hands on a fragment of a watered-down copy of a copy of a copy of a synopsis. I wouldn't be surprised if that's where Dementors came from."

_Good news: You're not a total moron.  
Bad news: Actually, you are. Good job.  
No one will believe you, they'll just think you're crazy and cart you off to St. Mungo's.  
Not even that nice place where they have the precious wunderkind.  
And you'll never see Hermione again. _

"And now it's stuck in my head. And I'm stuck in it. It knows so much, what will plunge me into a pit of despair. How to play me like a fiddle. I don't know how much of what I think or see is real. That's why I need Hermione. I've told you. Told you. I need Hermione. It had me convinced you weren't you Dad. It kept saying you were, and I didn't believe it, because it always lies, except some of the time it doesn't."

"If that's the case Ron, maybe we should get you to St. Mungo's," his mother offers.

"No. I'm not insane. I just can't tell reality apart from fiction. I don't need to go to the hospital, I just need to see Hermione."

"Ok," His father answers. "We'll arrange for you to see Hermione tomorrow, but for tonight, you're going to bed. Molly, I'm going to bring a calming draft."

It's only after he's had the stuff shoved down his throat that he realizes it's much more than a calming draft. But it tastes of chocolate and he's tired, so he doesn't mind."

He's only barely conscious of being carried to his bed.

"How do you think he'll take it?"

"Badly, but he has to find out eventually. We'll have to have the other Order Members looking out."

"I don't think I want to involve the Order just yet."

"I'll go ahead and Floo Bill, Charlie, Fred and George."

"You know she won't come alone. They wouldn't let her, especially not after, well, you know."

"I won't stand to have that man here."

"Well, we can't very well send him over to their manor house."

"You aren't implying? No. Under no circumstances will I ask anything of that fork-tongued mongrel."

"He's your son, and he'll be glad to do it. You know he wants to ask your forgiveness, if only you would actually grant it to him."

"He's no son of mine. But Ronald is, and Ron needs help. So for his sake, I'll swallow my pride."

"Thank you."

The words float in and out of his ears like a happy tune. He has no idea what they mean. Surely, it can't be important. Nothing is. And then, sleep.

**Author's Notes: **Ok. I thought I was going to be done with this chapter here, but I was wrong. It's been known to happen. Next update takes off where this one left off, hopefully concluding the introduction.


	24. Chapter 24: Intro III Part 3

**Title: **And All the King's Horses  
**Genre: **Mystery, Angst  
**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione  
**Rating: **T (But mostly because if The Dark Knight isn't R, then I really don't know what R means... Or M. Whatever)

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. The poems quoted are all in the public domain. This work is for fun, not profit.

**Summary:** After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.

**Author's Note: **This chapter is dedicated to Forlorn Maiden. Without her gently prodding and encouragement, it probably would never have seen the light of day.

**Introduction, Third Part of the Third Part  
In which news is had and some poetry is recited over dinner**

_So. Today is the day._

_Today is the day he'll finally be able to see Hermione. _

_In theory. _

_At least that's what they told him. He can't help but feel uneasy. Of course, that's normal. He hasn't really felt easy in a long time. Is that a correct expression? To feel easy? The opposite of feeling uneasy... _

_Charlie and Bill and Fred and George were drawing lots. There was an argument about why Father didn't join them. Mother had said she'd do it, and then Father had said no, he'd do it, but then it went back to the other four. Fred suggested they ask Percy to do it. George got upset, but Fred argued it was all his fault to begin with, and that was where he had stopped trying to make sense of the argument and volunteered to do whatever it was so unpleasant that no one else wanted to do it. He'd done unpleasant things in the past. He could do some more. Might as well. He'll have to do some more unpleasant things before this story's played itself out. _

"_I'll do it."_

"_What?" Bill looks flabbergasted. _

"_Whatever you're all arguing over, I'll do it."_

"_No, no, you can't do it," Father answers._

"_Why not? It's clearly something unpleasant. I'm used to doing unpleasant things."_

"_Which, little brother, is exactly why you shouldn't do this," Fred says with a strange sort of twinkle in his eyes._

"_Yeah. We'll just tell Minister Sinister to do it," George winks._

"_Ok. Whatever, but I don't think he likes it when you call him that."_

"_Oh, of course he doesn't," and this time, there's no twinkle, no matter how strange. _

_---_

_The minister's house is big and elegant and cold. He hates it more now than he did when he first arrived. Percy's had the place decorated, sweeping reds and golds decorate the great hall, and there's a giant banner being held up by pixies which reads back, "Welcome Back Ron Weasley!" Which is wrong of course, he doesn't want a welcome party, he wants to see Hermione. But Percy will hear nothing of it and just shoves him near an animated ice sculpture, a swan, which seems completely out of place and is squawking about how he's melting. There's a feast laid out, with roast turkey and honeyed ham and mashed potatoes and yams and stuffing and fillet mignon and seven different kinds of salads, twenty sorts of breads, six soups, and an entire table laid out with dessert. There's a chocolate fountain which calls his attention, but just as he's about to stick his finger in the cascading chocolate, Percy's strong arm wraps around his shoulders and pulls him away. _

"_You don't want to spoil your appetite do you, not after all the trouble I put the house elves through."_

_He can't help but think, bitterly, that Hermione would not approve._

"_Do you want anything to drink?"_

"_Have you got any hot chocolate?"_

"_Oh Ron, we're not going to toast to your return with hot chocolate. This calls for champagne, or Tokay wine, at least."_

_He doesn't want any wine or champagne, but before he's had a chance to object his brother has already shoved a glass in his hands. _

"_Percy, this isn't a wine glass."_

"_Oh, I thought we could toast with a good stiff scotch."_

"_Can you really do that?"_

_Percy shrugs. "I'm the Minister of Magic, and you're the hero of the hour, we can toast with whatever we want."_

_He eyes the brown drink with suspicion. But then, because he's tired and because he doesn't want to argue (he just wants to see Hermione, after all this time), he shrugs and lifts his glass. _

"_To your return, to your health, and to Harry Potter!" Percy smiles. _

_The glasses clink and he drinks his glass—the thing is bitter and it burns the whole way down. He much prefers hot chocolate. _

_Before he can object, Percy's served each of them another glass. "Now it's your turn to toast."_

_He doesn't want to._

Oh, you aren't going to be rude.  
Are you?

"_To your election, to your happiness, and to Hermione__**!**__"_

_Another clink, another drink, and it still burns the whole way down. Another._

"_This is the last one, what do you want to toast to Ron?"_

"_To life, to love."_

"_Alright. To life, to love.'_

_Clink! It's bitter, and it burns. _

"_Now, Ron, there's something I've got to tell you."_

_The words that come out of his brother's mouth are bitter. They burn. _

That's why ickle Ronnekins doesn't listen.

- - -

- - -

Party's in full swing and _no one_ is paying them any mind, which, by him is just fine. The gold and red's completely garish, but there's a nice cold draft that reminds him of home. That idiot Weasley (which one, _ha ha_, get it?) is off rubbing elbows. Or rather, there's something else he's rubbing, but there's no need for vulgarity. Not now at any rate.

He's bored. You'd think he'd get used to boredom, after the first century, or so, but no. The problem with boredom is that it's _boring_ (_and how!_) and it doesn't just go away.

Well this is stupid. Here of all places it should be interesting. Yes.

So he gets up and surveys the room. How many interesting people, but the most interesting one hasn't arrived. He wants to see _her_ almost as much as _he _wants to see her just to see if she's just as great as she's cracked up to be. _Cracked!_ See, if _he_ only got it, it'd be hilarious.

Who then? Who, who, who?

Ah. That one.

"Neville, long time, no see."

The stupid boor almost drops the plate he's holding (filled to the brim with filet mignon and apple and goat cheese salad. He may be stupid, but the boor's got good tastes).

"Ron! It's great to see you, I was looking for you!"

That's a patent lie, and he should know. He knows so much about lies.

"Yes well, I have a way of slipping into the background." He picks up a plate and starts to fill it with fillet mignon and apple and goat cheese salad.

Neville looks like he wants to ask something, but then he bites his lips and asks, "So, how was your trip? Did you find what you were looking for."

"I wasn't really looking for anything."

"What? But you did find a way to help Harry, didn't you?"

"Oh, of course, otherwise I wouldn't be here in England."

"But wasn't that what you were looking for?"

"Oh, is that what you meant? I meant, I didn't know for what I was looking. Made it hard to find it."

Both their plates filled, they move away from the serving table.

"So, tell me Neville Longbottom, what's been of your life since you destroyed Lord Voldemort's sixth horcrux?"

"What?"

"You did kill the Dark Lord's faithful snake, Nagini, didn't you?"

"Oh, yes, I suppose."

"Don't suppose. I'm certain of it. Sword of Gryffindor, right?"

"Yes, I guess, I pulled it right out of the Sorting Hat."

"How very lucky for you, isn't it? No ordinary sword or curse would have killed that particular snake, but that sword, being goblin-made was infused with the venom of the very same basilisk Tom Marvolo Riddle raised from a hatchling when he opened the Chamber of Secrets over seventy years ago. Basilisk venom is one of he few things that can destroy a horcrux."

"What?"

"A horcrux, probably the best known receptacle for a soul shard, but that's all advanced dark magic, and that was never really your specialty. Herbology, right?"

"Yes."

"How's that working out for you?"

"Just fine. I'm the Herbology Master at Hogwarts."

"Nice, stable position, not like Dark Arts, right?"

"Defense Against the Dark Arts," Neville corrects him.

"Right. Right. Lot of help that did them. I assume the position's still cursed?"

"The position's not cursed."

"Oh, you mean someone's managed to hold on to the position for more than a year?"

"No, but that's just been bad luck."

"You think so, eh? Well, why don't you take the position then, I'm sure McGonagall would love to give it to you."

"Ron, are you feeling alright?" Neville asks with a good deal of concern. Poor dear, doesn't understand a thing.

"Well now Neville, that's a hard question to answer."

"Well are you, or aren't you? I don't care if it's a long story, I'm your friend and if something's wrong I'd like to know, maybe I can help."

"Thank you for the sentiment. _I_ am quite alright. Very rarely have_ I_ felt better. Though, to be frank, I am rather anxious for Hermione to arrive. I do think I'd like to meet her."

Dawn lights in Neville's eyes. "That's what's got you all off kilter."

"That, and the alcohol. If it weren't for the alcohol I'm fairly certain you'd read all about how Ronald Weasley killed the Minister of Magic in the newspapers next morning. You still might."

"Ron, don't tell you're actually considering killing your brother?" Naville gasps.

He shrugs. He likes shrugging, he decides. Body language, on the whole, is rather fun. "What do _I_ know? I'm drunk. But you know, I think I'm going to go away now, I've told you everything you'd need to know. But you weren't listening. Of course, I only told you because I knew you wouldn't listen. He should have come back here years ago. I told him so. But he didn't listen. Of course, well, you know. Or do you? I doubt it."

"Ron, do you feel alright? You aren't making any sense, no sense at all," Neville asks, worry written all over his plain round face.

"Oh, _I_'m fine, if that's what you were asking, except, of course, that it wasn't. But anyway, I'm bored of you now, and boredom's one thing that never gets better with age. Not like this nice skotch I'm drinking. I think I rather like scotch, you know. All they've been giving me lately is that absolutely dreadful chocolate. Very bad for me. But as I was saying, I've told you all I wanted to tell you, and while I could tell you more, it would be cruel and entirely too easy. You're part of the story, yes, but like always, you're on the sidelines, in the background, so no need for you to get hurt. Have the Malfoys arrived yet? I think I would like very much to talk to them."

"Oh," Neville says as he shifts uncomfortably. "I don't know. You'd have to ask Percy."

"I would, wouldn't I? Well then, I'm off to find our brave and gallant Minister of Magic. Good luck teaching herbology at Hogwarts. I'll see you soon, or soon enough. Maybe sooner than that. Don't let the Dementors bite. In any case, you'll want to stay away from Hermione. Lions too. Not that you'll listen, of course."

Neville smiles, a false smile, uncomfortably plastered on his face. He hasn't understood a thing, which is a pity, because if he had then everything might be averted, and everything could be _fixed_, and everyone could live _happily ever after_. But, it's so much harder to write comedy than tragedy, and he likes tragedy better anyway. Poor dull Neville Longbottom. It would take a genius, and a patient genius at that, to explain it all to him; maybe Hermione Granger could do it. But _she_ won't. It's too late for that.

But he told him, (as he told Neville he did), he told him to come back, time and again, before, during, after, and now it's too late. Well, for _him_ at any rate. And her, and Potter, and all those other people. But not for him. He likes the pacing of this story just fine.

He finds Minister Weasley talking to an old witch. She looks extremely unpleasant, so he decides he likes her immediately.

"Hello again _brother_, your scotch is very good."

The woman turns to him and smiles, "Yes well, at least now he knows the difference between scotch and sherry." He joins in on the laugh, even though he has no idea what it's about. She continues speaking, "So Percy here was just telling me how you braved all sorts of dangers dutifully and bravely and how you've finally managed to find the cure for our illustrious savior."

"Oh yes, though Percy gives me too much credit. There wasn't any danger for me—the only thing that really terrifies me is boredom and I've met the most fascinating man. I'm afraid however, that I like him a good deal more than he likes me. Which, in the grand scheme of things, is understandable. And, I'm sorry, I'm chattering away, but it's been a long time since I've been at a party like this, able to talk and eat like this. Forgive me ma'am, but I can't shake the feeling that we've met before."

"Ron, don't you remember, Rita?"

"Rita? You mean, like _Rita Skeeter_?" Rita nods and he can't believe his luck. "Oh my, Miss Skeeter, you're the writer, aren't you? I'm a tremendous fan of your work."

"Are you?" she asks, confused.

"I am. You do very pretty things with ink, prettier things with words. I have to say however, that the prettiest things you do always concern the truth. I'm a very big fan of what you do with the truth."

"And what is that?" Percy asks, confused himself.

"Oh, surely you both know that. After all, you're friends. Percy, you've read all of dear Miss Skeeter's articles, and well, I hardly need to tell her—after all, she's written them. But if you excuse me, I think I just saw Mrs. Malfoy, and as you can well imagine, I've been dying to meet her."

Everything about her is different. Her brilliant eyes are dull, her messy brown mop is tamed and coiffed and blond, and the fingernails she used to bite are long and manicured. There's a house-elf at her heels, and that's different too, although he has a feeling it's not as different as it looks. But what's truly different, and truly beautiful is the black cloud of magic that hangs around her, cascading like the finest silk and binding together her broken silver soul.

He walks up to her and before she can even notice, he kisses her, on the cheek, like a brother, or a friend and holds her in his arms, just to see what she feels like. She's soft and round and even as her body stiffens in shock he can feel the comfort radiating from her and has to let go before the warmth of her soul can permeate through the thick darknesses and reach _him_.

"Ron," the word comes out of her mouth and into his ear just as he starts to pull away. It's a powerful sound, filled with a dozen shades of meaning, love, hope, tragedy, despair, incredulity… He smiles as best he can and holds her chin gently. _This_ is what _he_'s been waiting for, longing for all these years. This is what's kept _him_ safe and sane, and the moment is ruined.

"You're not Ron," she breathes in realization, and his stomach flips just a little bit, because she really is very clever, and because some of the cleverness is showing in her eyes, and he wonders how much the dullness is a mask.

"You're right. I'm not Ronald Weasley any more than you are Hermione Granger. What gave me away?"

"When you held me all the warmth went out of the world. When you smiled all the light went out with it. What are you? A horcrux?"

"Close, but no. The wizard who made me is long gone from this earth, which as you know, isn't how those things work. But I hardly think it's fair to give anything away… You're a clever girl, figure it out yourself."

"What have you done to Ron?" she asks. Her tone is delightfully accusatory.

"You make it sound like I might have _hurt_ him." He feigns hurt. "All I've done it told him what he needs to know to rescue your friend, and I warned him when you were in danger, and now I'm sheltering his mind, and you know what he does in return? He eats _chocolate_. That's all he's been eating ever since he got home, _chocolate. _I _hate_ chocolate. I rather like scotch though, it burns good and rough."

A faint ghost of a smile glimmers in her eyes expressing a sentiment he doesn't understand. "Contrary to popular belief, Ron is quite clever."

"He opened me? Didn't he?" He takes another sip and suddenly wishes it were a martini. There's understanding in her eyes, and he wonders if perhaps he's said too much, but on the other hand, he wants her to know what he is. She loves books, doesn't she? "If he'd had any sense at all, he would have run away from me, given up his fool's errand and sought comfort in your arms."

"But then," she answers, and there's a small smirk on her lips, "that would mean giving up on Harry." Silver is shining through the black and it drives him mad with longing. _Oh!_ How he wishes he could just pluck her silver soul and eat it. But then, he wouldn't be able to see its broken shining beauty or feel its writhing under the tentacles of such familiar dark magic. "Just because you don't understand friendship and love and courage doesn't mean they aren't of value, and it doesn't mean that someone who does understand them isn't clever."

"Don't you understand, sweet, broken Hermione? There is no hope for Harry Potter. Everything your darling Ronnekins has done has been a complete and utter waste."

The silver is incredible, to stay so radiant even under the weight of such a curse, even with a crack like that in it. "No hope? Ronald and Harry and I have done the impossible before." And now he understands how the soul can stay so bright, even wrapped up in black. He wants to take it from her, destroy the hope in her heart and watch the soul turn dull. He wants to see the dark tendrils of evil and ancient magic shove themselves into the tight crack, fueled forward by hatred and called inward, demanded, even, by despair. So now he has a mission. For the first time in centuries he has a real, tangible goal, and more than that, a plan. This will be slow and methodical, it would take time and patience and _skill_! For he can see that he has no power over her. She knows books, and so in a way, she knows him. And she knows evil and evil magic, but worse than that, she knows good, she knows love, and kindness, and hope. So, he has no power over her.

But he has power over Ron Weasley, and he is fairly certain he can gain power over others, other foolish men who dared to tread where they understood nothing, who flicked their silly wands and tore their own souls without even meaning to. One comes to him, even without bidding. Or rather, he comes to _her_.

The face would have been familiar to Ronnekins, he can sense that, but to him, it means nothing. The eyes and blond hair are meaningless, it is the slight silver, muddied, much more so than Hermione's and more sharply broken, and the strands of black which tie him to the girl that give him away. This is the man who has worked his curse on Hermione, and on doing do, cast the same curse on his own soul, shredding his heart into the black tendrils which wormed their way around Hermione's silver soul until they found a weakness and came into it, burrowing until they had enough of a foothold to tie her down and make her his.

The effect is stellar. The dark net draws tighter, thicker around her, blocking the light until he himself loses sight of it. The light goes out of her eyes, her old wild charm is replaced by the new tamed one.

A white hand land on her white shoulder, and he feels a flicker of jealousy. There's nothing he can do with that, not in his own heart, so he lets it trickle down through the dark fog to Ronnekins.

"So you've found the hero of the hour, my love."

She leans into the man who's made her what she is and presses her lips to his, like the good doll she is. It's enough to drive a book mad.

"Ronald here was telling me about his adventures."

And that's interesting. It's interesting because it's a lie, and as much as he loves lies and lying, he likes this one even better, because it's a subversive lie, when really, this woman is supposed to have no will of her own, not when she's swallowed up by the dark tendrils of her husband's transmuted heart. _Oh_, he knew _all_ about this little spell; he could see it, feel it, everything. And he _knew_ that what Hermione Granger had just done was impossible. _Ronald and Harry and I have done the impossible before_. It hadn't been a bluff. But how much of it had been Ronnekins and the famous Harry Potter? He knew Ronnekins. He was good and bright, but certainly not almighty. By himself, he couldn't do the impossible, of that he was fairly certain. So that left the two others. Hermione, sweet, sweet Hermione, and the famous Harry Potter.

"Oh, nothing particular interesting," he says. "Just a bit about a nasty troll and a few wild dementors."

"Oh really?" the husband asks. "I wasn't aware that there were wild dementors."

"You'd be surprised what crawls in the dark. Dementors are very dark creatures, you might say they were made of the dark arts. They hunger for the souls of human creatures, in a way, they're all wild, it's just a matter of how well they can hide it."

The husband laughs, a bit uncomfortably, "Are you implying the Ministry of Magic is using…

"Oh, don't put words in my mouth. Just because something is dark doesn't mean its bad. All things have their uses, the trick is knowing how to use them. Don't you agree?"

"Perhaps." What is that in his eyes? Fear? Distrust? Confusion? Has the little tinkerer learned his lesson, that some things are best left alone? He hopes not. "But all things have their price, and more often than not, when it comes to dark magic, the price is too high."

"Only for a weak wizard. Only a weak wizard discovers the cost of a bargain before entering it."

"To hear you speak, one would think that all wizards are weak." That's Hermione. How strange. The words are defiant, yet the tone is meek and her eyes are cast down.

The husband turns to her, with what _looks_ like concern. "Darling," he starts, "why don't you go with Scorpius, I think Father is looking after him."

She nods and bends down to the house-elf so previously ignored. "Keep an eye on them, won't you Dobby? Ron and Draco have a history of getting into trouble."

The house-elf nods, "Yes Miss," and Hermione is off, leaving them alone. The house-elf is an annoyance, but nothing more. Without Hermione Draco dulls—an interesting effect of that particular curse they're under. All of this makes for very dull conversation, and with Hermione gone he can't stand Draco. It's strange, because he normally prefers the curser to the cursed, and he wonders how much of it is Ronnekin's infatuation. The idea is troubling, very much so, but then again, as much as he likes to joke and discount Ron, he has to admit the amount of power Hermione has over him is impressive. But in any case, Draco is boring and weak. What was Draco like? He tries to ask Ronnekins, but Ron is in his own dark corner and of no use to him for the instant. Remember, remember! This Draco must be important, must have been important, so he must have popped up in Ronnekin's mind before. But no, it's entirely useless. All he has is a name and a position and a glimpse into a past history which obviously dabbled with magic so black no one could understand it fully and remain so thoroughly human. There's something more at work here, another player. Or maybe more. But who? Voldemort? No. No. He knows where Voldemort is and how busy he's been. The curse on Hermione and Draco is too young for it to be Voldemort's doing. And dammit, that's all the information he knows. Between Voldemort and Draco there's a missing link, but he can't find it. Can't find it at all. All he can do is make inferences from what he can see and what little he's taken from Ron. There must be other sins on Draco's hands, other terrible sins, but he can't see them, not through the black ink of his greatest sin which ties him to Hermione and wove a soul-piercing curse from his very heart.

He's stumped, and he hates it, because black magic isn't just something that he knows, it's something that he _is_, and it's never happened to him before to see a curse, even one of his own specific genre, so much blacker than the rest that it obscured all others.

What had this idiot gotten himself into? And why.

Sports.

Sports. Draco is talking sports. Good. He knows nothing about sports, but that's to be expected of Ron who's been away for so long. Quidditch. Yes, he knows the rules, they were written down by hand so he has read them, like he's read novels and poems and epics and journals and student's notes and letters (but not newspapers or magazines or recent government records—damn that Gutenberg and his movable type). Quidditch is so boring, so mundane. Where's the wickedness in a game of brutes? Leave it to Draco to bring it up. Leave it to Ron to love it. So he fakes it. Feigns interest and embarrassment at the fact that he hasn't kept up and doesn't know where Krum is coaching and who won the last World's Cup, or even where it had been held.

An older man approaches. From his face it isn't difficult to know who he is: Draco's father, and by extension Hermione's father-in-law, more revealing than his face, however, are the multiple scars of dark magic. They're so easy to read, it's almost boring. They tell a story which might have been interesting if there had been more talent involved. Alas, the scars are numerous and deep, but rather clumsily cut, and the deeper ones are the clumsiest. No silver here. No goodness to destroy, no talent to exploit. What a waste of a wizard.

The waste of a wizard places his hand on Draco's shoulder with imperious gentleness, confirming his suspicions that this is Draco's father. Draco's father looks him over, as if appraising him, and then asks simply, "Won't you join us at our table for dinner?"

Draco turns to him, "You've already eaten, haven't you?"

"I haven't had a good meal in ages, but if you mind my company…"

"No, no," Draco looks apologetic. And so, the three of them go to the table where Hermione is holding a sleeping little boy in her lap. The nasty little house-elf follows at their heels.

The food is delicious. It's true, he hasn't had a good meal in ages. Ronnekins has that awful habit of eating that dreadful thing—makes it dreadful to have a mouth. But Minister Weasley spared no expense. The food is great and the booze is better. Draco seems to agree. He's drinking wine, downing it quickly and about to ask for _another _glass when Hermione puts her hand on his, gently, almost affectionately, like a wife ought to put her hand on her husband's hand, but not, and asks him softly if he's tried the pumpkin juice, because it's absolutely wonderful. So he changes his mind, and asks for juice instead of wine.

Sports. Sports.

Zounds! Doesn't this idiot know how to talk about anything other than sports? He's not the only one who's bored out of his proverbial skull, is he?

No. The father is too. The man can barely stand his son. Makes sense. In any case, he's the one who puts an end to the drivel. Between cutting his steak, the older (elder?) wizard interrupts his son: "So, tell me Mr. Weasley, what is it that you've been doing all these years you've been away."

"Readying, mostly."

An eyebrow goes up. "Reading? What, exactly?"

"Oh, you know, this and that. Poetry, for instance. Would you like to listen to a poem?"

_No_. He can read it in the old Death Eater's eyes. But it's gauche to be rude to the guest of honor, even if he appears to be loopy, so he humors him. "Go ahead."

"I think you'll like this one, sir. I doubt you've heard it:

_He did not wear his scarlet coat,  
For blood and wine are red,  
And blood and wine were on his hands  
When they found him with the dead,  
The poor dead woman whom he loved,  
And murdered in her bed._

Hermione looks up; her eyes are bright with understanding, and suddenly he pulls a memory from Ronnekin's mind of an eager little mudblood witch waving her hand excitedly over her frizzy hair. "That's the Ballad of Reading Gaol, Oscar Wilde."

"Of course Hermione. Now shall I skip ahead and recite some more?" He doesn't wait for an answer.

_Yet each man kills the thing he loves,  
By each let this be heard,  
Some do it with a bitter look,  
Some with a flattering word,  
The coward does it with a kiss,  
The brave man with a sword!_

_Some kill their love when they are young,  
And some when they are old;  
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,  
Some with the hands of Gold:  
The kindest use a knife, because  
The dead so soon grow cold._

_Some love too little, some too long,  
Some sell, and others buy;  
Some do the deed with many tears,  
And some without a sigh:  
For each man kills the thing he loves,  
Yet each man does not die._

He could go on, and on, and on. It's a very long poem, but this Hermione, cowed and cursed, is hellbent on ruining his fun. "That's enough. Give me another one to guess."

"Alright, for you, Mrs. Malfoy:

_The ring is on my hand,  
And the wreath is on my brow;  
Satin and jewels grand  
Are all at my command,  
And I am happy now._

_And my lord he loves me well;  
But, when first he breathed his vow,  
I felt my bosom swell-  
For the words rang as a knell,  
And the voice seemed his who fell  
In the battle down the dell,  
And who is happy now._

_But he spoke to re-assure me,  
And he kissed my pallid brow,  
While a reverie came o'er me,  
And to the church-yard bore me,  
And I sighed to him before me,  
Thinking him dead D'Elormie,  
"Oh, I am happy now!"_

_And thus the words were spoken,  
And this the plighted vow,  
And, though my faith be broken,  
And, though my heart be broken,  
Here is a ring, as token  
That I am happy now!_

_Would God I could awaken!  
For I dream I know not how!  
And my soul is sorely shaken  
Lest an evil step be taken,-  
Lest the dead who is forsaken  
May not be happy now._

That's it. There isn't any more. "Can you tell me, Hermione, who wrote that poem?"

She's whiter than she was. He didn't know it was possible. "No. I don't know who wrote it. A two-bit poet, I'm sure. It's not very good."

"No, the poem's terrible, but the poet isn't. Really Hermione, you should know who it is."

Draco: "If you say she should know the poet, I'm sure she does; give her another one."

"Very well, for you, dear Draco:

_I dwelt alone  
In a world of moan,  
And my soul was a stagnant tide,  
Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride-  
Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride._

_Ah, less- less bright  
The stars of the night  
Than the eyes of the radiant girl!  
And never a flake  
that the vapor can make  
With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,  
Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl-  
Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless  
curl._

_Now Doubt- now Pain  
Come never again,  
For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,  
And all day long  
Shines, bright and strong,  
Astarte within the sky,  
While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye-  
While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye._

"That lovely," Draco answers with a sigh. Of course he likes it. Draco doesn't know when he's being mocked by a superior being. "Do you know the poet now, my love?"

Hermione shakes her head.

"Who would have thought poor Ron Weasley would ever out-bookworm the bushy-haired know-it-all? Oh, very well, I'll make it easy for you. Here's one closer to this heart," and he brings Ron's hand to Ron's breast.

_Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,  
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,  
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,  
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.  
_"'_Tis some visitor", I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door —  
Only this, and nothing more."_

_Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,  
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.  
Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrow  
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore —  
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore —  
Nameless here for evermore._

"That's Edgar Allan Poe."

"Ah, finally you get it."

"Yes, I do. I get it. This isn't a very fun game."

"Isn't it?" he asks. "I'm quite enjoying it."

"Well then, you are quite alone." The old Death Eater's lips and knuckles are white. He _looks_ offended. Draco doesn't dare to argue with his wife and father. "Tell me, Mr. Malfoy, is this why your brother is hosting this party? To celebrate that you have read some Muggle poetry?"

"Oh, no. We're here to celebrate the fact that I know how to cure Harry Potter's unfortunate illness. My poor dear friend—losing my dear little sister—it wasn't good for his mind. But I know what needs to be done to free Harry Potter. Alas—there's nothing to do for my poor dead sister. Little Ginny, you remember her, don't you sir? Lovely red hair, long silken strands. So nice to run your hands through… bright, expressive eyes, at least at first. It's not hard to see why Harry would have loved her. But her screams! Alas. A work of art, poor girl."

He's fairly sure he's made an enemy now. He sort of wanted one.

Dinner continues in cold silence. But it's ok, so long as the cold is coming from him.

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the long, long wait for the update. I was really busy/stressed out, and writing this chapter was about as fun as having my teeth drilled.

I recognize that after this long of a wait, I'm in no position to make any demands, but I would really _love_ reviews. : -) Thanks!

Special preview: the next chapter returns us to the main time-line, and will almost certainly be called, "In which Draco Malfoy has a drink."


	25. Chapter 25

**Title: **And All the King's Horses  
**Genre: **Mystery, Angst  
**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione  
**Rating: **T (But mostly because if The Dark Knight isn't R, then I really don't know what R means... Or M. Whatever)

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. This work is for fun, not profit.

**Summary:** After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.

**Author's Notes: **Blah! I'm tired of doing LSAT drills. Let's see if we can't pick up the pace. And by the way, thanks to all the people who reviewed last chapter. Sorry for making you put up with that ridiculous wait.

**Chapter 25  
In which a drink is prepared, and subsequently enjoyed**

The book in his hands is old—two hundred years at least. The leather binding is cracked in places, and the spine is coming loose. The pages are yellow and brittle, and there's the smell of old books when he opens it. He's not the original owner, nor was the owner before him. There are notes in the margins. Notes in blue ink which are frighteningly stupid in nature, notes in faded brown that aren't quite so stupid, and even interesting to read, but they're terribly off topic. There are notes in bright red ink which have feathered and bled through the pages. The only notes worth reading, however, are those in crisp black in and Uncle Sev's familiar handwriting.

Poor Uncle Sev. He never gave Uncle Sev much credit when he was younger, and Uncle Sev made it out so badly. So badly in fact, that he didn't make it out at all. Didn't fall in battle, didn't pay the price for treason—nothing of the sort. The slimy monster killed him just because. Or, not just because. Not just because at all. Uncle Sev is one more entry on the list of people who died protecting him. As far as he knows, there's two people on the list, and it's already far too long. If Uncle Sev hadn't made that Unbreakable Vow, well maybe he wouldn't have killed the old fart, and then maybe You-Know-Who wouldn't have felt so compelled to kill him for the Elder Wand. And there's Mum, of course—no logic needed there. She died to protect him, like Potter's mother did for him. If Mum and Uncle Sev could see him now. What a fucking waste of love and talent. All that for a poor, broken sod.

Dammit.

That's not the issue at the moment. Not at all. He doesn't want to think about Uncle Sev and Mum. Or, for that matter, he doesn't want to think of Scorpius or Rose or Father. Especially not Father.

God. He fucking hates his father.

But, why? For the life of him he can't remember.

Ah—he's found it, the potion he was looking for.

Good old Uncle Sev. Too bad it's too late to thank him. Uncle Sev always gave him potions books for his birthday and for Christmas. Not this book of course—this one only got added to the Malfoy library when poor old Uncle Sev bit the bucket and no one else would take his stuff. _Well Uncle Sev, you can do one last thing for me_.

He reads through the ingredients list and directions and black notes. Yes. Yes. He can do this. Totally can. Potions was always his best subject. Everyone, even Father, always thought it was favoritism on Uncle Sev's part, but no. He was good at potions. Really good. Better than Pansy, better, even than Granger.

Granger.

Fuck. Where did that come from?

Granger.

When did fucking Granger become Mrs. Hermione Malfoy, the air he breathes?

Ha.

Ha ha.

HAHAHAHAHAHA—

It's only when the tears drop off his cheeks, that he realizes he isn't laughing. He'll never laugh again. How can he? Without her, without his lovely, lovely wife, there'll be no joy in the world. He's cold and he can't imagine that he'll ever be happy again. But he remembers being happy. _So happy_, and maybe, when she wakes up, he'll be happy with her. Yes. He'll be happy with her, but only then. Until then, he'd rather die than live without her.

And that's the idea.

Magic is so useful. How do the muggles manage without it?

He's got the ingredients ready, and the cauldron. Now he has to concentrate. He starts working on it, preparing everything, adding them into the mixture at the right time, keeping a steady eye on the fire. Part of him is nervous. He could really use something to drink. Brandy? Vodka?

NO!

No, no, no, he tells himself. He has to do this right. It's a hard potion to brew and if he screws this up, he can kill himself and blow the manner up to kingdom come. Or worse, he might not do anything at all, and then Father will find him and make sure he doesn't do anything else.

He hasn't had a drink all day long. He's sober.

The idea came to him when he was drunk, of course. But, now that he can think rationally, it still strikes him as a great idea.

Now how to administer the potion? The classic ways won't do. He hates apples almost as much as he hates needles, and frankly, he's not going to stick a comb into his head. Besides, those methods are easy to undo: dig the apple out, pull the needle free.

He'll just gulp it down.

Maybe he should write a note. No. It's all obvious.

When she's awake she'll come to him and he'll wake up.

He's left a note to the House Elves. It's a very nasty note, and he's sure he won't be disturbed. And Father's off all day at the Ministry. As long as father doesn't come back early, everything will go off without a hitch. After the first few hours, there's only one antidote, and if he can't have it, he doesn't want to live. It's that simple.

When the thing is done, he ladles the potion into a nice goblet. The drink is black, like the ink of Uncle Sev's notes. The glass is heavy and cold, like death, but living. He raises the glass:

"To true love! Eh, Professor?"

He brings the glass to his lips and

**Author's Notes:** So, it's not a terribly long chapter, but an important one. It's a bit disjointed. I like that. And yes, I intended to leave off in the middle of a sentence. ;-)

Now, as always, reviews would be lovely.


	26. Chapter 26

**Title: **And All the King's Horses  
**Genre: **Mystery, Angst  
**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione  
**Rating: **T (But mostly because if The Dark Knight isn't R, then I really don't know what R means... Or M. Whatever)

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. This work is for fun, not profit.

**Summary:** After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.

**Chapter 26****  
In which a young man visits the man who has haunted his nightmares since he was four, again**

The last time he was here he practically whimpered when they took his wand away from him. This time he practically thrusts it into the guard's hands. He doesn't need his wand, or want it at least. Not now. Right now he wants to use his fists and pound in someone's face. His blood is boiling with rage, doubt is swirling in his mind, and he's on the precipice of despair. Strange, this time he feels no different upon entering the prison grounds. The Dementors cannot take away his rage, and that is all that keeps him from hopelessness. There are no happy thoughts in his head. Only rage and doubt.

A wall of cold does hit him as he rushes down the corridors. The guard escorting him is slow, so slow.

"Walk faster," he hisses, impatient.

The guard turns around, annoyed.

"Listen brat, just because you're Malfoy's kid…"

Malfoy, how that word hangs heavy over him now. But it is what he is. He is a Malfoy, and all that comes with it, even if he is a Gryffindor too. So he pulls out a bag of coins and waves it in front of the guard's face. "Run, don't mention my name, and you can have this."

It's crude. But effective. The guard starts running, and it's still not fast enough. They get to their destination, and maybe it's too fast after all, because Weasley isn't here yet.

"Where is he?" he spits out.

"They're bringing him."

He's antsy. His blood is boiling still, but he wonders for how long the rage will be able to keep him going. He hasn't slept, he's a bit hung over, and he wants to kill someone. He's not quite sure who: Grandfather for starting this, Father for agreeing to it, Mother for giving in, Weasley for unearthing it, Professor Parkinson for explaining, or himself for being helpless. No. He refuses to be helpless. He's going to fix it, and he's going to fix it soon, if he has to ally himself with the demon of his nightmares.

And here he comes. Ronald Weasley. He looks ragged and dull and grey, his hair white, his eyes sunken. The guards all leave. Weasley ends the silence: "So, you're back."

"Shut up!" he yells. Clenches his fist, lowers his eyes, and composes himself. "Yes. I'm back. I finally found out about the Marriage Law."

"I'm sorry."

"No, you're not. I'm certain you're sorry that there was ever a Marriage Law. I'm sure you're sorry about what happened to my mother. You're sorry you were away. You're sorry you came back. You're sorry you came back too late. You're sorry I was born. You're sorry my sister was born. You're sorry you didn't kill my father and grandfather when you got the chance. You're sorry you've been in Azkaban for eleven years. But you're not sorry I found out that my grandfather got a law passed to force my mother to marry my father against either of their wishes and ruined my mother's life. You're not sorry you tortured my father in front of my eyes."

"You're right," Weasley answers. "I'm not sorry. That day I would have loved to kill your father for what he did to Hermione. I would even have killed you, I was in such a rage, I would have killed you for being evidence of the fact that Hermione's soul had been broken to bits. A part of me is sorry that I'm not sorry, but that's it, if it makes any sense."

"You're sorry for you, not for me."

"No, how could I be sorry for you? She loves you."

And then, without warning, Weasley falls. He falls quickly and without grace. He does not stick his hands out to catch himself. His knees do not give out—all of him does, as if though an invisible string has been cut and the puppet has fallen, limp and lifeless.

And suddenly he feels cold. The cold of Azkaban is multiplied, it pierces his skin and flows into his veins. It kills the white hot rage that sustained him, and now all he can think of is of how he feels like the four year old hiding behind the curtains in the living room. _There's a man, a friend of his Mother's. And then his Father. And then some yelling. His Father and the man, yelling—saying awful things, things he doesn't understand. His Mother starts screaming. That's the most terrifying thing of all. His Mother's never screamed before. She'll never scream again, until— That's besides the point. His Mother is so calm, so docile, she always does what Father wants. Now she's screaming too. Crying. Father looks like he's about to hit her, and he cries out, but his screams of terror are drowned out by his own Mother's scream of pain. His Mother's on the floor now, crying, and Father immediately looks sad. Father's tone changes. Father is kneeling next to Mother. Mother is sobbing quietly, and Father is trying to calm her down. He wants to run to Mother, but he can't he's afraid. Afraid of his own Father._

_His eyes are so intensely focused on Father and Mother that he doesn't notice the man as he pulls out his wand. There's just a sudden flash. He's never seen it before, but he knows it's a spell and he can feel that it's a bad one. Father crumples to the ground. Father is the one screaming now. It sounds awful, like father is dying, and he doesn't even know what death means. Father is rolling around on the floor uncontrollably, screaming, screaming, screaming, and Mother is sobbing on the floor, huddled, sobbing. The man kicks Father to the side, but it doesn't seem to make a difference—the screams can't possibly get any worse. Then the man goes to Mother, and he is terrified that the man will hurt her like he hurt Father, but he can't move from behind the curtain._

_Mother is standing. She looks like a ghost. More than usual._

_The man is kicking Father, harder and harder. The screams aren't changing._

_Father is writhing on the floor. Screaming._

_Mother is standing._

_Tears are rolling down his cheeks. He's too terrified to scream anymore. Suddenly Mother's eyes lock with his. She sees him, and looks even more like a ghost. She looks to the man, still kicking, then to Father, and finally back to him. He thinks tears are rolling down her cheeks, but he can't be sure. She reaches into her dress and pulls out a wand. He's never seen Mother's wand before. He didn't realize she had one. Without flinching she points her wand at the man and says something. The man falls. Father stops screaming, and Mother falls to her knees, her face in her hands._

_He runs to Mother, who holds him tightly. Tightly, tightly, he thinks he'll die._

Mother. Oh God! Mother. And all he can think of is his mother being dragged away from her home in the middle of the night by Father and Grandfather. How they must have snapped her wand, and how she must have fought back, tooth and nail. And how they must have tied her arms and legs, leaving her to scream with all her might, until her throat was raw and her voice was gone, so that she could only cry and cry, until she had no more tears to shed. How she must have trembled silently. He can't think of anything, but of the girl in the picture, laughing, full of life, and how she became the grey woman in St. Mungo's. What was done to her, and how he came to be. What Mother must have gone through for him to be born. And he's sick and he's cold. He feels dirty. Part of him wants to wash and wash and wash, until his skin comes off, and part of him wants to crawl into the warm earth, it's so cold. He's not sure there'll ever be any happiness again in the world. And why should there be? If Mother was miserable for twenty years, all because of him? Why should he be happy? He shouldn't. He doesn't deserve to be happy. He's never deserved it. The precipice grows deeper and blacker, and he knows he must climb into it. Mother has lived in despair. Now he must too.

Instinctively, his hand goes into his pocket, looking for that ancient security blanket, more powerful and reassuring than his wand: the phoenix-feather quill.

_Grandfather has found out about the lion, and then, more than thunder ever had, Grandfather rages and berates Father and Mother. Father sits silent, but for once Mother stands, stands up to Grandfather. It only lasts a day, a single day of open revolt against Grandfather, but in its own way, Mother's strange, unnecessary act gives him the courage not to cry as Grandfather rips his faithful lion to shreds. He cries afterwards, but then he does so quietly into his pillow in the dead of night in the privacy of his room._

_His sobs however are not so quiet that they don't called forth Mother. She opens his door with a gentle _alohamora_ and glides delicately to his bed where she joins him and begins to smother him in kisses and caresses until he had finally stops his sobbing and turns to face her. He finds her holding the old lion, slightly worse for wear, but certainly a good deal better off than the fluff underneath Grandfather's feet._

_"But how?" he asks and she smiles (she always smiles more at night time, when it's just the two of them in his room)._

_"Magic." And then, for a second, she stops smiling. "But, Grandfather can't know, do you understand?" He nods, and then she takes out her wand—that precious instrument so rarely seen, and presses it to the lion and utters an incantation he doesn't understand. The lion had transforms into a phoenix-feather quill and keeps him company ever after. _

Mother does love him. And that's a happy thought. Enough, he thinks, to conjure up a Patronus, and certainly enough to fight at least some of the cold. In his other pocket he has a bar of chocolate. Good stuff. He takes a bite out of the bar, and that does a little more to revive him. Weasley is still on the floor, he offers him a chunk of chocolate, and that's enough to get a hand moving; it's slow and grey and skeletal, but it's moving towards the chocolate. And then, for no reason, it stops and Weasley sits up straight, smile on his face and gleam in his eye.

"On second thought, no thanks. I think I'm fine. Or more than fine, really, but that's not why you're here. You want to fix your mommy."

"Can it be done?"

"Yes. Hermione Granger's condition is not dissimilar from Harry Potter's. I could heal them both. I could free her soul from the black magics that bind it. But not from here."

"Tell me how to do it."

"I can't. It would take too long. It wouldn't work. Although, if you want, there's an old book you could read."

"Where is it?"

"In an old library in Transylvania. It would be easier to just bring me along. Safer too, just ask Ronnekins."

"What?"

"Nothing. Nothing. You know, after years in Azkaban, one does get lonely. Your Great-Aunt Bellatrix isn't the best of companions. Help me and I'll help you. Like the apes: you pick the fleas off my back, and I'll pick them off yours. Scratch and scratch, you know."

"No."

"No. Ok then. Hurry home to Daddy. Poor Draco. He's taking this all rather poorly isn't it? Probably drinking. Well. Drinking a lot. Well… Drinking a lot, for him. Which is _really_ a lot. One of these days he's going to drink himself to death. Go to him. He needs you now. Mum is too far gone for you to help, unless you call in big bad Ronnekins or go to Transylvania. Why don't you go to Transylvania. It's a real good read. I swear."

"You're not making a very convincing argument for me to ask you to help me."

"Of course I'm not. What ever gave you the impression I wanted to help, or even get out of Azkaban? It's such a cheerful place. Why go about rescuing Mrs. Hermione Malfoy when I can stick around this place reciting nursery rhymes? _Ring a-ring o' roses, a pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, we all fall down. _Or how about this one? _Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the king's horses, And all the king's men, Couldn't put Humpty together again._" Weasley laughs madly, and now he's terrified once more.

"No. No. Stop." Weasley is suddenly on his knees, clutching at his head. He looks up at him, his eyes hollow in despair, the mad mirth gone. "The chocolate, give me the chocolate." And he does as instructed. Weasley gobbles it up like a man who hasn't seen food in weeks, and then he starts to sob. "I can't think straight if I'm in here. I can't help Hermione or Harry; hell I can't help myself. Tell my mother that I was ill today. It won't be a lie. Then come back to Azkaban as quick as you can. I'll need all the chocolate and polyjuice you can manage to bring me there."

"Why chocolate and polyjuice?"

"Chocolate is the best general antidote to certain kinds of black magic. I'll need all of that you can muster. Milk chocolate. Not white, not dark. And the polyjuice is for hiding afterwards. The last guy to break out of Azkaban managed to say out because he was an animagus and because he had Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix to rely upon. I have neither of those advantages. I can't believe I'm taking a page out of that psycho Crouch's book."

And he nods, almost afraid that he's made a deal with the devil. But there's no one else to turn to… certainly not father or grandfather or Rose. So the devil it is. Now, where to get polyjuice, and how to find the Weasley matriarch?

**Author's Notes: **And finally, we have a plot. You know the drill. Review, please.


	27. Chapter 27

**Title: **And All the King's Horses  
**Genre: **Mystery, Angst  
**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione  
**Rating: **T (But mostly because if The Dark Knight isn't R, then I really don't know what R means... Or M. Whatever)

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. This work is for fun, not profit.

**Summary:** After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.

**Author's Note: **Woah Nellie! The plot continues. There's sooooo much plot in this chapter. It's like a miracle, or something.

**Chapter 27  
In which the day starts out great and doesn't end that way**

He wakes up, as if though by magic, (except without the as-if-though), at five thirty to go over all his projects for the day. By seven, all his papers are packed in his briefcase and he is dressed, impeccably, ready for breakfast. The house elves bring it promptly, and the eggs are cooked to perfection. The _Daily Prophet_ flies in, along with a letter from Rose. He smiles and read it. She's doing very well—tests have just come back, and as expected, she's at the top of the class. Not a surprise, exactly, but pleasant, nonetheless. He puts his wand to the paper and an extra line appears: _PS-What ever did you do to Parkinson?_

He smiles and scribbles back, quickly: _Surely, I don't know what you mean. Congratulations on the good grades. I shall be making a trip up to Hogsmeade later in the week—I'm certain Miss Parkinson will have no objections if I take you out to dinner to celebrate. _He presses his wand to the paper, and the first line disappears.

He sends the owl on its way, and begins to read the paper while working on a scone. His stocks are up, and he thinks it'd be good to sell. Weasley's up in the polls, which is always good. Skeeter has a human interest piece on Harry Potter, which is worthless dribble, but interesting to read nonetheless.

Halfway through his coffee, Draco appears—shaved, dressed, and most promising of all, sober.

"The house elves say Pansy came by very late last night."

"Oh yes, it was nothing. A little misunderstanding about a paper Rose wrote for her, but I straightened her out right away."

"Seems like a lot of trouble for a paper."

He shrugs. "Rose wrote today, she's doing very well in all of her classes."

Draco smiles. "Of course. Like her Mum, that one."

"Rose is a vast improvement on her mother."

Draco looks sad, so he leaves it. The whelp is a worthless waste, but he is his son and a Malfoy. If he can stop drinking for long enough to have breakfast, soon he'll be ready to marry off and try again. Not to Parkinson, however. He'll have to look around. A younger woman, probably… or else, a widow? That could work. A friend's childless daughter was recently widowed… Arista… Asteria… something or other. He'll have to inquire to old Greengrass. If nothing else, it'll be good networking and he hasn't seen Greengrass in months.

Coffee and paper finished, he's off to work.

"Well, I'd best be going."

"You'll be back for dinner?"

"No, I think I'll pick up a gift for Rose at Diagon Alley, and then I'll dine at the club. You're welcome to join me."

"No, I have plans."

"You aren't going to go see Hermione, are you?"

"No, not today. I have something else planned."

"Something more important than the Mudblood? This is exciting… However, I have a meeting with Gringotts in less than half-an-hour, and I must be off. I can't wait to hear all about it later tonight."

"Goodbye Father."

There's something in Draco's voice that bothers him, but not enough to keep him from heading off.

The meeting with the goblins goes swimmingly. He is now a very rich man. Or, an even richer man. He's always been a fan of a tidy profit.

Then he has to report at the Ministry, for his once-a-month former Death Eater check-in. It's a joke, and he spends the fifteen minutes with the bureaucrat trading muggle jokes. Nothing really untoward, of course. Nothing like _What's the difference between a pile of dead muggles and the Crown Jewels? I don't have the Crown Jewels lying around in my house. _Or, _What's the difference between a muggle and a block of wood_. _The block of wood doesn't scream when I crucio it! _More like: _Why did the muggle write TGIF on his shoes? So he would know "Toes Go In First_."

They share a few laughs. It's all good.

Then he stops by to see how that divorce law is getting along. He makes a couple of bribes, casually drops the fact that he has box seats for the Canons…

Everything is going _so well_, when, suddenly, at around eleven in the morning he suddenly gets a terrible feeling he can shake. It's horrid and oppressing, and suddenly he can't get poor dead Narcissa out of his head. He's in a meeting with the minister, but for the life of him, he can't concentrate on whatever it is that Weasley is going on about—all he can see is Narcissa's sad, shocked eyes looking up from under him.

"Mr. Malfoy, is something the matter?"

"No, no, why?"

"Your hands are shaking and you're completely pale."

"Yes. I'm not feeling well."

"Do you want me to call a mediwitch?"

"No. I'll be fine. I think I just need some fresh air."

He gets up, and Weasley escorts him to the door, and seems ready to follow him…

"I'll be fine, Minister," he forces a smile, and it's painful, like that time during the War when he forced a smile and lied to Narcissa, telling her everything would be fine.

Fresh air doesn't help, however. It's bright and cold outside, and it doesn't help. Narcissa is dead. His lovely Narcissa is dead. She's been dead for over twenty years, he doesn't know why he's thinking of her now. He's walking quickly, almost jogging, breathing heavily… He passes the Weasleys' silly joke shop, and that damn poem starts up in his mind. Bloody hell.

What the hell is wrong with him?

What _is_ wrong with him? How could he have…

Oh god.

Oh God.

Oh God!

He can't breathe any more. His hands are balled into fists, and they're still shaking. He can't really see anymore and his knees are weak. Without regard for his fine clothes, he sinks onto the floor and just sort of sits miserably on the curb, sinking his face into his hands. For the first time since he took Narcissa's portrait up into the attic, he just sort of sits there and cries.

He loses track of everything then. It's like in those days after the war ended, and all that matters in the world is that Narcissa isn't with him any more and that he's all alone, and it's all his fault. His fault for not being good enough, or smart enough, or, or lucky enough, or brave enough. Not good enough to not join in with Voldemort, or good enough to please Voldemort. Not smart enough to know not to throw his lot in with the Death Eaters, or smart enough to know how to outsmart Voldemort or Dumbledore, or smart enough to outsmart a couple of half-breed and Mudblood teenagers. Not lucky enough to be win, or at least lose earlier. And not brave at all. Not brave at all. How many times could he have said, No? And would that make her still be here, with him?

And that stupid poem.

It's not even any good. He's read it all the way through, just once, and it's crap. Sure makes him feel like crap, and now it makes him want to kill himself. But, he's not good enough or brave enough.

It's another Weasley that wakes him up from his relapse into hell. The fat cow.

"What are you up to now, Malfoy?" she asks with a thick venom in her voice, but it's not as thick as the venom in his head.

He looks up at her. She's dressed in silks like the one Narcissa used to wear, but nothing like them. You can't buy class, that's for sure. He's not quite sure how to react. He's not sure if he's embarrassed to have a _Weasley_ see him crying on the floor, or if he doesn't care. And if he doesn't care if it's because he just wants to keep on crying on the floor, or if he doesn't care because, well, she's _just_ a Weasley cow.

So, for a moment, he just looks at her, like an awkward idiot.

After a few seconds, he blinks.

Then he looks away.

"Are you ill?" She asks, and he's not quite sure what the tone of voice means. If she's bad enough to be glad (though who could blame her?) or good enough to be worried.

He fixes her with a glare that says, _I don't need your nouveau-riche, blood-traitor pity_, and stands up, smoothing out the crinks and creases in his clothes. He turns his back to her and starts to walk away. His legs are still wobbly, and he's glad he always carries the cane with him.

"If you want, I can send someone to go look for your grandson for you."

He turns around, and with all the disgust he can muster he tells her, "Scorpius is at Hogwarts."

"No," she answers, "He came by the joke shop earlier, around quarter to noon. He said he was going to Knockturn Alley to run errands for you."

"What? Why would I send the little idiot to Knockturn Alley?"

"Well, with his family history, it isn't surprising that he'd be scurrying around Knockturn Alley by and for himself and lying about it."

"If that brat thinks I'm paying his Hogwarts tuition for him to skip out on school and ruin the Malfoy name, he's got another thing coming to him." And he rushes off, towards Knockturn Alley to find the brat—if he's away from school, chances are good that he'll be expelled, and if he's at Knockturn Alley, chances of that are even better. What a fortunate excuse to disown the half-breed brat.

Halfway there, however, he realizes something. He doesn't give a damn what the boy is doing. With good luck he'll touch a cursed object and blow himself to bits. And even if he does catch him doing something untoward, only Draco can really disown him.

Stupid brat and his whore Mudblood mother.

Well. There's an idea. Yes. That'll take his mind off of things. So he changes his destination, and half an hour later he's at Saint Mungo's. He hasn't had any lunch, but he's not hungry. For food, at any rate. His eyes are still a bit red, and that expedites the process to see her. She's lying on her back, her eyes open but lifeless, even deader than before. Just a gentle rise and fall of her chest, barely even noticeable, lets him know that she's still alive and warm, and that makes all the difference. He closes her eyes, and begins to work out all his anger and frustration on his sleeping daughter-in-law.

It's nice, in away, not to have her whimper and cry. Having her whimper and cry is good too, of course. She's just a Mudblood anyway, so it really doesn't matter.

Two hours later, however, and he's feeling great. A flick of his wand, and it's like he was never here in the first place.

He's a bit tired though, so he does go for a coffee and a nice apple turnover. It's very good. He's feeling even better now. He looks at his pocket watch and realizes it's too late to do any more work of value. He'll go shopping for Rose instead. Finally, he finds a book she'll like and buys it, along with a novel for himself. He has it wrapped and drops it off at the post with a charm on it so he can see the look on her face when she opens it.

Like planned, he does have dinner at the club. Greengrass is there—first time all month. They have dinner together, talk about their children. Astoria is the name of the daughter. It seems she really is quite the catch. Greengrass is so sorry about Hermione, and he sighs and nods, and tells Greengrass all about how Scorpius and Rose and Draco are all very sad, and how it's quite incurable, and how tragic it is. And as if though it were his idea, Greengrass suggests sending Astoria over to Draco, because misery loves company, and Astoria loves children…. He can practically see the Galleon signs in Greengrass's eyes, but pureblood relations have always been tit-for-tat.

They share a cigar, join in on a game of Wizard Poker, which he loses on purpose, and then, finally, he leaves.

Draco seems to have gone out. Good for him.

He settles down with his new book in the most comfortable chair, with a bowl of strawberries and a glass of champagne. It's a good novel. An 18th century satire. He's completely lost track of the time, and finally, late into the night, he finishes the book. Smiling, he puts it down, stands up and stretches. Rose, he is sure, will like it. He'll give it to her when he sees her later. He looks at his watch. It's strange. It's very late (or very early) and Draco hasn't come in. What in the world could he be doing?

With any luck, he's on an exciting date with a pretty, rich, classy, pureblood girl half his age. That would be nice.

It's time to put the book away and go to bed. Lots of things to do tomorrow to make up for all the things he didn't do today. He thinks it's strange that the library door is locked. Stranger still that a simple Alohamora doesn't open it. He calls for an elf, who sheepishly explains that The Young Master asked not to be disturbed.

He knocks.

"Are you in there, Draco?"

There's no answer from Draco, but the house-elf assures him that Draco shut himself in there around ten in the morning. Ten in the morning means no lunch and no dinner, and no plans.

"There isn't a girl in there, is there?"

"No sir," the elf answers.

"Very well, that is all."

"Yes sir."

"But, iron your fingers before you go to bed tonight."

"Yes sir."

He knocks again, louder. Tries a different unlocking spell. Suddenly he's very worried, though he doesn't quite know why. He knocks the door down with a simple battering-ram spell, and his heart sinks to his feet when he sees Draco sprawled on the floor with a broken glass in his hand.

He thinks the boy has gone and drunk himself to death and he's on the floor besides his son. Draco is still alive, which is good, but he doesn't smell like alcohol at all, which is bad because he doesn't know what he's had. The potion is long gone… But… Snape. Snape's books! They'll help. He looks at the shelf where they're stored and notices immediately: one is missing. It's on the counter. He runs to it and finds the book open to the instructions for brewing sleeping death.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Anything but that.

Frantically he scrounges about the potions kit Draco's left lying about and finds a bezoar, which he shoves into Draco's throat. The only effect is that Draco starts choking on it, without waking up and he has to use his wand to remove it.

For the second time that day, he just sort of crumples down on the floor and folds in on himself. He doesn't cry this time… He just runs his hands through his hair and sort of stares into the distance and doesn't move until the sun comes up and reminds him he needs to floo St. Mungo's.

He spends fifteen minutes waiting for the mediwitches to arrive. Another fifteen waiting for them to get Draco ready to leave. He goes with them to St. Mungo's but they won't let him go with Draco. First a mediwizard wants to look at him. A nice nurse offers him some cocoa and her condolences.

"I'm sorry about all the bad things that have happened to your family recently, Mr. Malfoy." Later, to another nurse, she whispers "And to think, such a nice man. You know, he visits his daughter-in-law so often!" He hears it, but it doesn't register.

Then he spends two hours filling in paperwork for the hospital. Half of it's already taken care of because of the money he's donated to the hospital, and half of what's left over has already been done because of the Mudblood's condition. The remaining quarter amounts to four pages which he should be able to fill in in fifteen minutes, but he can't concentrate long enough to read any of the questions.

When he hands it in, Aurors start questioning him. It's awfully suspicious, they say, what's going on. First Hermione, now Draco. He answers their questions. He's fallen into the pattern of lying years and years earlier, so he doesn't even have to think about his answers, which is good, because he can't really think. It would actually take more effort to tell the truth. They don't even bother trying to read his mind.

Three hours in, and they leave.

A doctor comes in and explains all sorts of things he already knows. Sleeping Death. True Love's Kiss. Blah. Blah. Blah. Depression. Blah. Something about how it's actually quite ingenious.

"She's never going to wake up," he says, "which means he won't either."

"Romeo and Juliette, alas. I'm very sorry for your loss, Mr. Malfoy." And then they start talking about long term lodgings. The doctor does all the talking and for the most part, he just nods.

"This is going to kill Narcissa," he mumbles, bringing his hand to his forehead.

"Mr. Malfoy, your wife is dead."

"And for what? What a waste."

"When was the last time you slept?"

"Yesterday."

"Listen, Mr. Malfoy, go home. Get some sleep."

On his way out, he bumps into the Minister, who looks something like a muggle child about to be hit with a killing curse.

"So you've heard already?" he asks Weasley.

"Yes. I didn't realize you knew…"

"Of course, I found him."

"I thought Scorpius did?"

"No. He's supposed to be at Hogwarts. I found him."

"Because of Hermione?"

"Yes. Now, if you excuse me, I've been filing paperwork and dealing with suspicious Aurors for hours now and I haven't slept since yesterday. I'm going home."

- - -

He can't sleep. The bed is too big and too lonely, and all sorts of terrible things are going through his head. He gets up and goes up to the attic. He wants to talk to Narcissa.

But she's not there. He can't blame her. Being stuck in the attic for 20 years… he'd go other places too. It doesn't stop him from talking to the empty canvas.

"You died for him, and he goes and does something like this. I told you he wasn't worth it. You should have let him die and stayed with me."

He goes back down and has breakfast. The owl has already come and left his mail.

Halfheartedly, he opens the _Prophet_ where he's greeted by the unwelcome face of Ronald Weasley and the headline:

**Rogue Dementor Kisses Weasley! Bellatrix Lestrange Only Witness**

Any other day, it'd make him very happy. He can't quite muster the joy, but at least he's glad to know something bad has happened to Arthur too. He quickly scans the rest of the paper. Nothing about Draco or his breakdown in Diagon Alley yesterday. Good. Or, goodish.

And then there's a note from Rose, thanking him for the gift.

Rose.

Sweet, smart, dependable Rose.

Oh God! Rose!

He'd completely forgotten about the children. He'll have to go over to Hogwarts and get them out of school!

He floos over… special privilege of being a School Governor.

He finds the Headmistress and explains the situation. Rose is in Potions and Scorpius is in Charms and she sends someone out to find them both. Rose shows up quickly, but Scorpius isn't anywhere to be found. McGonagall pulls out a Headmaster's Map, which shows a list of all the persons in the castle—Scorpius isn't there.

"I don't understand," she begins to apologize.

"I can't worry about him right now. I will take Rose, if you don't mind."

"No, no, go ahead, when he comes back to the castle I will owl you immediately."

"Thank you."

They leave by floo—just the two of them—they head back to the manor.

"What's wrong, Grand Father?" Rose asks.

Something in his throat catches, but he begins to explain: "Your father has done something foolish." And he explain.

"Sleeping Death. The only way to break that spell is with True Love's Kiss. So, when Mother wakes, she'll wake him, right?"

"He's never going to wake up, Rose."

"I'm very sorry Grand Father," she puts a hand on his shoulder. _She's _comforting _him_. He pulls her into a hug and she holds him tightly. It's more than he can bear, and he starts to cry for the second time in two days. She strokes his hair. "There, there, Grand Father. If that blood-traitor would do that to himself over a Mudblood, he's not worth your anguish. And, you still have me."

"You're right," he concedes, but he still cries.

It's not until evening that they go to St. Mungo's. He can tell Rose thinks it's a waste of time, but goes along with it for his sake. They can't get in, however. There's a crowd of people: mediwitches, nurses, and doctors, hospital administrators, visitors, reporters, even patients. No one can get in.

He spots Rita Skeeter making her way through the crowd, away from the hospital. He waves to her and she comes over to the two of them.

"Rita, what in the world is going on? I haven't seen anything like this since the Longbottoms."

"Coincidence, isn't it? You sister-in-law is involved now too."

"Did she get out of Azkaban again?"

"No Lucius, you're not so lucky. Ron Weasley broke out of St. Mungo's."

Fuck. He did not see that one coming.

"Don't take this personally, I realize the _Prophet_ is a yellow rag, but didn't I read in there that Weasley had gotten a Dementor's kiss?"

"Yeah. So did the idiot mediwitch who put her wand down on the counter. Boy am I glad I didn't write that story. Apparently, he faked it somehow. I talked to Bella this morning—it's like she's a completely different person now, it's kind of really creepy actually—but apparently a Dementor did do something that looked an awful lot like kissing with Weasley; she wouldn't believe me at first that he still had any will left in him at all, though towards the end, she did admit that Ronald did seem to get on better with the Dementors than anyone else, so who knows."

"What else do you know? Real information, not that tripe you peddle in print. I'll make it worth your while."

"Yesterday morning, get this, your grandson went to visit him at Azkaban."

"What in the world was Scorpius doing at Azkaban?"

"I have no idea. Apparently it's not the first time he's visited Weasley, he paid out a hefty bribe, and he came back later that day, before Molly showed up. You should know, the Aurors consider him a suspect in the case. Molly and Minerva McGonagall have already confirmed that you don't know where he is, and Percy knows you wouldn't hide him if he were responsible for helping Ron escape."

"Of course not. Idiot boy."

"Quite. But in any case, it seems as if though he thought Weasley seemed really sick, and told Molly Weasley about it. Mrs. Mother Hen went off to Azkaban right after she bumped into you, and found Ronald looking very much like he'd been stripped of his soul. Bellatrix Lestrange told her a Dementor had administered the kiss, and Molly ran over to Percy's office, basically knocking the door down. She threatened to kill Percy's secretary and went into hysterics, right in the middle of a meeting with the Chinese Minister of Magic. Percy assured them both, Molly and the other minister, that the Dementors in Azkaban were under the Ministry's perfect control, but he agreed to go with Molly."

"And lo and behold, Weasley had no soul."

"That's what it looked like. Immediately Percy brought Bella in for questioning and ordered Ron to be moved to St. Mungo's. He stayed with Molly and Ron until his brothers showed up and forced him to leave. He was pretty shook up about the whole thing. He called me up, you know, the kid has just the two of us for friends, if you can call us that. I've never seen him so upset, and he's always upset. I had to stay the whole night to make sure he wouldn't do something stupid. The fact that he thought you knew didn't help.

"And then, this morning, poof! Ron is all better. He got up, stole the mediwitch's wand and went on a rampage. He killed nine people, tortured seventeen, and did things that haven't got names to the patients in the incurable ward—God, it's a good thing the Longbottoms are long gone in the head, or they'd be going crazy from what he did to them. It's pretty clear he was looking for your daughter-in-law. Aurors got there before he could get to her though, and he disapparated. Chances are pretty good he'll come after you, Draco, Scorpius and Rose."

"Perfect, just another thing going wrong."

"What's wrong?"

"I'll tell you if you spin it in my favor."

"Writer's honor."

"You haven't got any honor."

"Yes, well, neither do you, but you know I'm smarter than to cross you in print."

"Draco swallowed the Sleeping Death. He's in with Hermione."

"Oh, Lucius, I'm so sorry."

"It's a good thing Weasley didn't know."

"Yes. Of course. But when he finds out…"

"Oh God."

"You know, Weasley wasn't the brightest of the three, but when any one of those children set their mind to it, they can do the impossible, and now it looks like Weasley's got a full arsenal of dark magic that'd make Grindenwald tremble."

"What's the Minister doing about it?"

"You mean, after he deals with the hangover from last night? I have no idea. I don't know what he wants to do."

"Good. I'll tell him."

"Tell him what?"

"That we're going to find Weasley and give him a real Dementor's kiss."

"How are you going to do that?"

"I'll think of something. Or if you do, let me know."

"Sure thing Lucius, let me know if there's anything I can do. We Slytherins have to band together."

"Ah, there's your angle: _New Dark Lord Gryffindor Graduate_."

"Ron Weasley as the New Dark Lord? Won't that attract certain people to him?"

"Not if you play up his complete infatuation with Granger. Blame her for this."

"Ooooh! I like that! I'm going to go write this right away!"

She goes and he turns to Rose. "Let's go home. I want to work on the wards."

And Rose nods. At the Manor she even helps him strengthen the wards, and then they have dinner. The food is particularly good, to make up for everything.

"You know Grand Father, if Scorpius did help this Weasley escape, I'm sure it's not Scorpius's fault. He's not very smart, you know."

"I know."

"But, it worries me, that maybe Weasley's got him."

"I know darling."

"Do you think he would do that? Do you think he'd harm Scorpy?"

"Frankly? I don't know. I don't know Ronald Weasley at all."

"But you know who does know him?"

"Who?"

"Father's Aunt Bellatrix. She's been across the hall from him for as long as he's been in Azkaban, right?"

"Yes, but she won't cooperate with us. She hates my guts, and I find it hard to believe she'd care about what Weasley might do to Scorpius."

"But Grand Father," she almost whines, "You're Lucius Malfoy. Certainly there's something you can give her in exchange for her information."

"My head on a pike."

"Oh, but I like your head on your neck. What about her freedom?"

"That would require an official pardon from the Minister."

"Criminals get to go free in exchange for information all the time in my books. I'm sure you could convince the Minister to work something out."

"Except, Bellatrix killed the pretty little Weasley girl, and she wasn't so pretty when they found her."

"Yeah, but the Minister's brother just killed a handful of people and is after more. Weasley's a politician, but he's still a Gryffindor. Won't he worry about all the poor innocent people that his brother will undoubtedly hurt? And, if the Minister doesn't act, I'm sure we can make it look like he's shirking his duties because of the fact that the criminal in question is his brother. I mean, that's corruption. That's got a prison sentence attached to it, doesn't it? And besides, I thought you could ruin the Weasleys any time you wanted… I think you can do it."

"You know, it might not be such a bad idea."

"Well, think about it, at any rate."

**Author's Notes: **I stayed up really late writing this, and now I'm really regretting it. Urg. Glurg. Make me feel better by writing me a review?


	28. Chapter 28

**Title: **And All the King's Horses  
**Genre: **Mystery, Angst  
**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione  
**Rating: **T (But mostly because if The Dark Knight isn't R, then I really don't know what R means... Or M. Whatever)

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. This work is for fun, not profit.

**Summary:** After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.

**Author's Note: **Heh. Well, we can't have _too_ much plot. What, do you think this is _Blood, Silk, and Steel?_

**Chapter 27  
In which a little girl is frightened and not much else happens.**

She's glad she's in her own bed. It's far more comfortable than the one in the Slytherin dorm. The mattress is filled with imported Thunderbird feathers, and the sheets are of Egyptian cotton. There are deep enchantments placed on it, to aide in sleep, encourage soothing dreams, and protect the sleeper from harm.

It's a good, warm, comfortable bed, with heavy blankets that press down pleasantly when she lies down under them. But it's a big bed, a big, empty bed, in her big, empty room, and she's alone in it.

She misses Blaise. Not that she particularly likes Blaise, but at least, Blaise would be someone to talk to, someone to keep her company. She could talk to Blaise about Scorpius, or about boys. Either one, really, and it would help. But there's no one in her room but her, and she can't help but think of Scorpius and Weasley. She doesn't like Scorpius. He's a stupid, weak-hearted Gryffindor, and a momma's-boy to boot. But that's just it. He's stupid and weak-hearted and a momma's boy. There's not a doubt in her mind that if he thought Weasley might be able to help Mother, he'd give the creep the benefit of the doubt and help him out of Azkaban. Because that's what Gryffindors do—they give people the benefit of the doubt when they really shouldn't. Weasley's a Gryffindor too, but after twenty years in Azkaban, well… and those things he did to those people. Grand Father wouldn't let her see the pictures in the _Prophet_, but that just means it's _really, really_ bad. And what would stupid Scorpius do against that sort of thing?

Where is Scorpius? Why isn't he at home or at Hogwarts? And there's only one answer, of course. Weasley has him. Weasley's probably going to kill him. Weasley can kill Mother if he wants. She's just a stupid mudblood, and Father too, he's an idiot blood-traitor. But Scorpius? He's her _brother_, and even if he's stupid, and weak, and a Gryffindor, and even if Mother always loved him more, she still doesn't want anything bad to happen to her big brother. Well, nothing really bad. It'd be ok if he flunked out of Hogwarts, or had to spend the night in the hospital ward because he mixed up a potion, or if Grand Father disowned him… But it wouldn't be ok if Weasley killed him or tortured him so much he had to go an live in St. Mungo's like Professor Longbottom's parents. It also wouldn't be ok if Weasley used Scorpius to get to Grand Father. Grand Father can take Weasley, she's pretty sure. But still.

She twists.

She turns.

She can't sleep.

So, she throws the covers off and gets out of bed, and goes out of her room and down the hall, past Scorpius's empty room, down the stairs, and all the way to Grand Father's room and knocks on the door. When he doesn't answer, she opens the door and peeks inside to find him asleep in his bed.

"Grand Father?" she whispers. When he doesn't answer, she walks a bit close to him and says it again, more loudly this time. And then again, and again. And oh, God! Weasley's gotten into the Manor and killed Grand Father! She runs to him and starts shaking him. By the time he manages to open a sleepy eye, she's past the point of tears and in hysterics.

"Rose, Rose, what's wrong?" he asks her, sleepily.

"Ohyourestillalive!Ohthankgod!Icouldntsleepandthenicamehereandyouwouldntwakeupand—

"Slow down child, I can't make out a word you're saying."

"I was so scared!" she sobs into his shirt.

"There, there," he strokes her hair.

"But—you wouldn't wake up—I thought—Weasley."

He holds her chin up and wipes away her tears. "Oh Rose, nothing is going to happen to me, or to you. I promise."

"But how can you know that?"

"Are you saying you doubt me?"

"No, of course, not, but…"

"But nothing. I will take care of you. There's nothing in the world that I love half so much as you, and no amount of dark magic is stronger than that."

She frowns. "Now I know you're lying. You sound like a Gryffindor."

"No," he chuckles and lifts her up into his lap. "I sound like a man who knows something about dark magic. I know quite a lot about that, you know."

"I know. But Weasley does too… maybe more."

"Yes, well. Let me worry about that. You young lady, should get to bed."

"But, I can't sleep."

"Do you want a sleeping potion?"

"No."

"A glass of warm milk then?"

"Grand Father?"

"Yes Rose?"

"Can I sleep with you tonight? I mean, just for tonight."

"Rose, darling, don't you think you're a bit old for that?"

She shakes her head vigorously, sinking her face into his chest, and she sobs a bit harder for effect. If she cries hard enough, Grand Father will do whatever she wants. It seems to work, as he holds her tightly and rests his chin on the top of her head.

"That's very manipulative of you, dear Rose. But you really are too old to sleep in my bed."

"Please? Pretty please?"

"No. You'll sleep in your own bed."

She frowns. "But—

"But nothing Rose. You're eleven years old, and off at Hogwarts. You simply cannot sleep in my bed."

She looks up at his face and tries the sad puppy-dog eyes.

He smiles and shakes his head. "I'll buy you anything you want, and I'll help you cheat at school, but I'm afraid I must draw the line when you ask to sleep in my bed."

"But why, Grand Father?"

"Because, my darling, it's simply not appropriate. And if I say yes today, I won't be able to say no tomorrow."

She pouts. "Can you carry me?"

He laughs. "I think, darling, that _I'_m too old for that."

"Well, can you at least walk me to my room?"

He smiles and nods and pushes her off his legs and gets up himself. He offers her his hand and in silence they walk up the stairs and down the hall, past Scorpius's room to her room. Grand Father tucks her into bed and leans over to kiss her forehead.

"Could you just sit here until I fall asleep?" she asks.

"Very well," he smiles and sits besides her on the bed. And now, all she has to do is stay awake longer than Grand Father. After all, Grand Father said she couldn't sleep in his bed, but he said absolutely nothing about him sleeping in her's.

**Author's Notes: **On a scale of one to ten, was that too creepy? Originally, Lucius was going to let her sleep in his bed, but that sort of creeped me out. Reviews would be lovely.


	29. Chapter 29

**Title: **And All the King's Horses  
**Genre: **Mystery, Angst  
**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione  
**Rating: **T (But mostly because if The Dark Knight isn't R, then I really don't know what R means... Or M. Whatever)

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. This work is for fun, not profit.

**Summary:** After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.

**Author's Note: **Isn't mortal peril shiny?

**Chapter 29  
In which a young man is in mortal peril**

Fear. Despair. Rage. All at once and then by turns. First fear, because he's afraid of what will happen to his mother and to him, and then despair, because he doesn't know if it can be fixed, and finally, rage, because of what his father and grandfather did and what it means. Or was it despair, because all his life has been a lie, and then rage, and then fear because he was going to ally himself with the devil himself? Or despair and fear, and only then rage—because he's been betrayed. He doesn't know. He knows he feels and felt fear, despair and rage, but he's not sure why, or when, or against whom. Hatred at himself even, because he was naïve enough to think that Mother might have been happy, or because he was stupid enough to trust Weasley, and now all of these people are dead and it's all his fault. All his fault. And Mother. That's all his fault too. Oh Merlin! The things she must have endured for him… even for him to be born.

He feels sick.

One word, it's all it takes to describe the indescribable. Sick. He could hurl.

He doesn't.

Grandfather's always been right. He's worthless. He hates himself so much, he could kill himself.

But no. He has to stop what he started. So he heads after Weasley. He'll save Mother, but not with the help of this murderer.

While everyone is trying to appraise the situation, he catches a glimpse of the back of Weasley's head and he races off after it, not looking where he's going, until he turns and finds Weasley standing against a brick wall.

"You walked into a dead end!" he shouts and readies his wand.

Weasley simply smiles. "I'm glad they haven't changed this street. I've been gone a very long time." And then, Weasley raises his wand and he readies his own weapon:

_Expeliar—_

Hmm.

Hmmmmm.

Mmmmmm.

What? All the grief washes away from him. Why was he upset in the first place? He can't remember. Nothing important, he's sure. And nothing he can do about it, so it's no use worrying. It's wonderful. No use worrying. About anything really. Nothing really matters. There's no point to anything. And that's just lovely. It's like he's walking on the clouds. And that's all he has to do really. Walk. One foot in front of the other. Rinse wash and repeat. Just walk and walk and walk, wherever his feet will take him. Things will work out. Because in the worst case scenario—there is no worst case scenario. The worst that could possibly happen is that something truly terrible happens to him, but in the cosmic scheme, he doesn't matter. Nothing matters. And nothing is his fault.

- - -

The door closes, and suddenly his grief and his will return to him. He's in a large bedroom, which, he thinks, must have been grand, once upon a time, but now it's ugly and old and badly in need of upkeep. Through the thick, thick, cover of dust and grime, he can make out Gryffindor colors and oddly inanimate pictures of scantily clad girls on strange wheeled things.

Is this Weasley's old room?

He has to get out. No wand. The door is locked. So is the window, and it looks like it's a long way down. He rams against the door, once, twice, three times, and it's definitely stuck.

Looks like he's stuck. Stuck in a house with a murderer.

Maybe there's something in the desk or the armoire? He checks the desk first. There's a quill pen and a dried-up inkwell, a few pieces of parchment with the outlines of what appears to be a prank and the word Padfoot in the corner. A toy dog. A toy wheel-thingy, and, at the bottom of the bottom drawer, some odd-looking magazines. He takes one: the pages are old and brittle, and the picture on the cover doesn't move. Cautiously he opens it, and his eyes almost fall out of his eye sockets when he lays eyes on the first picture. It's just a girl, of course, and one that's not even moving. But, wow… just wow… Actually, the fact that they're not moving is sort of even better.

No. No. He cannot be looking at these things when he's supposed to be finding a way out. And what would Mother think if she knew he was looking at these things? He closes the magazine and looks at the cover. There's a date on it. May 1974. Ok. Weasley's not that old. Where the hell is this?

The desk is a bust, so he goes to check on the armoire. He opens it…

And Mother is inside? Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Mother, Mother, Mother.

Is she dead? Oh no. She's dead. Weasley's gone and killed his mother and stuffed her in a closet and left him in the room with her corpse.

"Mother?" She can't be dead. Still, she's not breathing. Her chest is completely still. "Mum? Mummy?"

This is what he gets for trying to fix things. Grandfather's always been right. He's just an idiotic little fuck-up. He's really fucked up this time. Tried to go get Weasley to help her and now she's dead. Fuck. Fuck. It's all his fault. At least before she was _alive_. He's worse than Father and Grandfather and Weasley.

The door swings open; Weasley rushes in, wand pointed forward. "What's going on? Why are you screaming? If this is some stupid plot to get away…"

He stops screaming. He hadn't even noticed he was screaming. He tries to speak. Tries to shout _You fucking murderer! You killed her!_ But all he can do is sob and point.

Weasley sighs. "You idiot boy—I didn't kill your bloody mother. That's a—

And suddenly his mother is gone, and in her place is a tall, skeletal figure, splayed out on the floor, face-down, just as dead as his mother had been seconds before.

The look of annoyance on Weasley's face shifts into one of abject horror. He stumbles back and almost drops his wand. He brings his shaking free hand to his face and covers his mouth. "No. It isn't possible," he gasps, and it's clear that Weasley is holding back tears. "No, no, it isn't possible." And then, Weasley laughs. "That's right, it isn't possible!" He laughs harder, manically, "He isn't dead; he couldn't be dead." Weasley's laugh is almost more terrifying than the image of his dead mother. The skeletal man transforms into a giant spider, but Weasley is still laughing. "I'm not afraid of anything."

The skeletal man—if it can truly be called that—is back, but now it is standing, and it is truly terrifying. "You've failed me!" it yells in a wrathful rage that makes him want to piss his pants, but Weasley just smirks. "That might have worked if you'd tried it first." And then, "_Avada kedavra!_" And the scary skeletal man crumples into a small, hairy thing. "So that's what a boggart looks like," Weasley observes, and then with a flick of his wand gets rid of the boggart's dead form.

"What was that?" he asks.

"A boggart. Aren't they teaching you anything at that school of yours? Even the werewolf covered boggarts. Apparently Hogwarts has gone even more downhill. Hard to believe."

"What's a boggart?"

"A creature that takes the form of whatever you fear most. Normally you don't have to kill one to deal with it, but hey, I've been in Azkaban for decades."

"Oh."

"This room is pretty uninhabitable, isn't it?" A flick of the wand and the dust is gone, at least. "This whole house has gone to seed. And to think what a great house this once was." Weasley looks wistful. "I spent some of the happiest moments of my life in this house. But that was before… _Toujours pur_. So much for that. The mighty pureblood House of Black is as shabby as this old place: three half-blood bastards and a barren withered witch." And then, he turns and asks pleasantly: "Are you hungry?"

And frankly, he sort of is.

- - -

Dinner is surprisingly good. He's not allowed to leave his strange room, so the two of them eat among the faded yellow and red. Weasley is really relishing the food, though. Every bite elicits groans and moans and funny facial ticks. "This is soooo much better than the gruel they serve in Azkaban."

"It's pretty good compared to the food they serve up at Hogwarts and Malfoy Manor," he offers up. "But, why are you eating with me?"

"I've been in Azkaban for years. I'm not going to pass up the chance for company, even if I have to settle for you."

He laughs, because it's sort of funny. Weasley is clearly a psychotic axe-murderer, but somehow, he's sort of growing on him.

"Probably why I haven't killed you yet," Weasley explains.

"Aren't you going to?" he asks.

"I dunno, you know. I might." He takes another bite an moans some more. "Oh God that's good! You see, I haven't really made my mind up yet. I've been debating it. Do you think I should kill you?"

"I'd prefer it if you didn't."

"Well that's understandable. To kill or not to kill, that is the question, isn't it? On the one hand, you're Hermione Granger's brat. On the other hand, Draco's your father. Or, put another way, on the one hand, you're a Gryffindor, but on the other, you're also a Malfoy."

Weasley suddenly reaches out his hand and grabs his chin. "Oooh, and you hate Lucius. That's a point to recommend you. Now, I wonder, how does Lucius feel about you?"

"He thinks I'm an idiotic blemish on the family name."

"Well, you are. A half-blood and a Gryffindor to boot. Do you know what that must do to Lucius?"

"Yeah, well, it was his idea to force my mum to marry my dad."

"Oh, really? That's rather a relief. Here I was thinking the lot of them had just gone daft. Why do you figure he did that?"

"I dunno."

"Well, we'll have to find out, won't we? But answer my question poppet, how does Lucius feel about you?"

"He doesn't like me."

"Does he hate you?"

"I… I don't think so. Maybe."

"Well, let's hope, for your sake, he doesn't."

"Why?"

"Because if there's a chance he wants you alive, that means you're live bait. Ever gone fishing, poppet? The fishies like it when the worm wriggles."

- - -

Weasley's getting impatient. He can hear him pacing back and forth down the corridor. Just barely he can make out an oddly shrill whisper: "Why haven't they done anything yet? It's going to run out."

And two days later: "How many people do I have to kill for them to act?"

- - -

"Sorry poppet, Lucius and the Minister aren't biting. I don't think they can see the wormy wriggling." And then there's that wonderful feeling of having nothing at all: no guilt, no freedom. All he has to do is take the knife and cut…

And when the spell lifts, his ear is pounding with pain. Through instinct, he reaches up and finds a gaping hole where his right ear used to be and he starts to scream.

"Oh hush poppet, a little healing charm and you'll be right as rain." And he's right, but he's still a right bastard.

- - -

There's dessert that night, as if though to make up for the whole "Made you cut your own ear off" thing. Fuck that. He doesn't touch anything.

- - -

By midnight, he's sorry about the temper tantrum. He's hungry. By noon the next day, he's even sorrier. There hasn't been any food all day and he can't get out of the damn room.

- - -

There isn't any dinner either.

- - -

He's going to die. Weasley's changed his mind and is going to starve him to death.

- - -

"This place is abandoned. He isn't here." It's a familiar voice. Not Weasley's. Or at least, not Ronald Weasley's.

"He was here! Look! Look! There's food in the cupboards!" It's a woman's voice he doesn't recognize.

"Yes! Look! Someone was here recently. If you had freed her sooner we would have gotten here in time." He's never been more glad to hear Grandfather's voice, even if he still hates him.

"Frankly, Mr. Malfoy, I'm not seeing the advantage to freeing her at all. There's clearly nothing here. What little information she had is of no use now."

"It would have been useful earlier!"

"She could have cooperated earlier, too! This is useless. I'm pulling the plug on this stupid operation and sending her back to Azkaban."

No! They're going to leave. He starts to knock on the door, then pound.

"Wait! What's that sound?"

"Probably a boggart or a poltergeist."

"No! Now that I remember, there used to be two bedrooms on this floor, not just the one for cousin Regulus."

He pounds harder.

"The door should be… _here_!"

"There's nothing there."

"Don't be daft. Clearly he's hidden it."

"Grandfather! I'm in here!"

"Scorpius?"

"Scorpius," it's the woman again, "where are you?"

"I'm in a room with Gryffindor decorations and strange posters that don't move."

"That's Sirius's room! Weasley's charmed the door somehow, but if you pull up the house's old blueprints, you should be able to find it."

"Let's go!" Grandfather orders.

"I'll stay here and talk to him." The woman.

"Not without ten aurors to keep you company you won't." Minister Weasley.

"Fine then. Ten aurors and I will keep you company, is that alright Scorpius?"

"Yeah, that'd be great. Who are you?"

"Oh, I'm your Auntie Bella. How are you?"

"I'm really hungry."

"How's your ear?"

"He put me under the Imperious Curse and made me cut it off, but then he grew me another one."

"I'm sorry. They didn't tell me he had you until he sent the ear to his brother. I would have come sooner if I could have."

And they talk and talk and talk, until, finally, they're able to get the door visible and then they open it. The woman he's been talking to all day, this Auntie Bella, rushes in and holds him tightly. She's different from what he imagined she would be: thinner, paler. But her voice is reassuring. "It's ok," she strokes his hair and he breaks into sobs.

"I thought I was going to die," he sobs.

"Shh, shh, it's ok, it's ok," she promises, "The bad man has gone away, and we're going to catch him for what he did to you."

And even though he doesn't know this woman at all, he knows, immediately and deeply, that after Mother, she's the thing he loves most in the world.

**Author's Notes: **Next chapter will backtrack and cover the span of this chapter through Percy's POV. LSATs are on Saturday, well-wishes and reviews would be most appreciated. Next chapter probably won't update until after then.


	30. Chapter 30

**Title: **And All the King's Horses  
**Genre: **Mystery, Angst  
**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione  
**Rating: **T (But mostly because if The Dark Knight isn't R, then I really don't know what R means... Or M. Whatever)

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. This work is for fun, not profit.

**Summary:** After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.

**Author's Note: **Yay for Percy! (Not really…)

**Chapter 30  
In which a woman is not herself, the name of a dead man is spoken, a bargain is made, a boy is found, and the Minister is impotent  
**

How could Ronald do this to him?

As if he didn't have enough to worry about, now he has to deal with the fact that his damn _little brother_ has escaped from Azkaban and is out _murdering_ people. Rita's being a dear and running as much damage control as she can in the _Prophet_, though, damage control really isn't her strong point. It doesn't help. His poll numbers have dropped like flies. Half the wizarding populace thinks he's being soft because it's his brother in question, and the other half, the half with red hair and a penchant for Muggle artifacts and pranks, thinks he's being even more of an arse than usual.

But it's not just that. How could Ron do these things? Blast Malfoy with the cruciatus curse? Yes. Half the time he wishes he could do that to Malfoy Sr. It's illegal, so he doesn't do it, and it's illegal, so he understands why Ron needed to be put in Azkaban—that's the law, and it's his job to uphold the law, no matter how much the law sucks.

But this.... What Ron is doing now... Why? It's vicious and unnecessary. The attack at St. Mungo's was just the tip of the iceberg, and what an ugly tip it was. The look on poor Neville Longbottom's face when he saw what Ron had done to his parents... And the increase in violence against Muggles... it has to be linked to Ron, but he doesn't understand. It'd be one thing if Ron were to come after Draco and Lucius, and even after Hermione and her children, but _Muggles_? It doesn't make any sense to his mind, unless Ron has lost all of his sanity and goodness and essential _Ron-ness_ whilst in Azkaban. And if that is the case... if Azkaban has turned Ron into another Bellatrix Lestrange... Oh God. He doesn't know what he would do. Kill himself, probably. Except, he always tells himself he'll do that, and yet he never does, so he probably doesn't have it in him.

It's sick. He wants his little brother back in Azkaban. He wants a deranged killer to go free. He doesn't know what he wants, and even worse, he doesn't know what he needs.

He likes the law. It's supposed to be clear-cut. There's the things that are right, and the things that are wrong. The things that are legal and the things that are illegal. He hates ambiguity. Sometimes it's hard to know what's good and what's bad. Things that are wicked can seem pure, and things that are pure can seem dirty. Lies can be appealing and the truth is often ugly. How is he to know the difference? But the law, the law is clear and solid. So he follows that. He's read all the treatises on government. He has a nice liberal defense of the law. It's his job to uphold the laws... even the ones he doesn't believe in. He's not the one who makes the laws. He's a _minister_, not the bloody _King_. Not that there is a king. At least, not at the moment. But, it is his job to enforce them.

God. He hates his job. How did he ever think this was the thing to do? How?

Three months into his term he burned his copy of _Prefects Who Gained Power_. It's simple to burn a book. Even easy to become Minister of Magic. Easier with Malfoy money. Everything is easier with Malfoy money. Except Christmas dinners and sleeping soundly at night. Those are much, much harder with Malfoy money.

Speak of the devil.

Malfoy.

One of the few people who can walk into the Minister of Magic's office unannounced.

"I want to know what you're doing to put Weasley back in Azkaban."

Oh. That really isn't good. Lucius normally opens with a pleasanter greeting. Not that he's a pleasant person, but Malfoy is old-fashioned and believes in exchanging pleasantries with his pawns (not so much with his enemies or equals).

"I have the best Aurors working on finding him and restraining him."

"Oh, yes, because your best Aurors are _completely_ equipped to deal with a psychotic Dark Wizard and not a bunch of incompetent Gryffindors playing Harry Potter."

"Well, I have all my best men working on it. There's not much more I can do."

"Listen, you little worm: you owe me more than a thousand life times could repay. I don't ask for much, only that you look after my family's interests." Such candor. Fuck. "And, I bloody well think that keeping a monster hell-bent on destroying my family locked up with the Dementors is the bloody definition of 'looking after my family's interests.' Rose is terrified. She can't sleep at night. And where is my grandson?"

"I assure you, I can't sleep at night either." And it's true. He'd been drinking a lot of coffee and getting a lot of work done. Rita's helped by giving him a couple of charms for the bags under his eyes. "However, I have to say, that the matter of your grandson is also being investigated. All the evidence points to the fact that he may very well have been instrumental to Ronald's escape, and if that's the case, that could be a 20-year stint at Azkaban."

"Oh yes, if Scorpius is in collusion with Weasley, you won't find enough pieces of him to send him off to Azkaban once I'm done with him; but the truth of the matter is that I know that whimpering whelp of a boy—he's 100% mudblood Gryfindor like his worthless whore of a mother, and I don't think he could plot his way out of a paper bag, much less Azkaban prison."

Suddenly an Auror interrupts, bolting through the door. Normally, Auror's have to knock at least. This just keeps getting worse and worse and worse.

"Knockturn Alley," he pants, "fifteen dead, thirty-seven more seriously injured."

"Oh God!" he sinks into his chair.

"It was Weasley?" Malfoy asks.

"Yes. Minister, I know you don't want to do it, but it's our only hope."

No. That's one thing he will not do. There is no law that says he has to do what they want him to do.

"No. That's final. I will not have another word of it, or I will have your job."

But Malfoy is interested. Damn. "What, what is this thing that you won't discuss?"

"I and a few other Aurors think it'd be a lot easier to catch Ronald Weasley if we had the cooperation of someone who knew him well."

"They've already interviewed my parents and my brothers, not to mention the whole of Dumbledore's Army. The only ones who could possibly know Ron better are Harry Potter and Hermione Malfoy, and as we all know, they're indisposed at the time."

"No." Malfoy's catches on. No. He doesn't want Malfoy to catch on. Damn Malfoy for being so wicked and smart. "Bellatrix's spent the last eleven years with him. I'd wager she knows his soul better than any other living creature."

"Lestrange is uncooperative," he explains.

"Of course she's uncooperative," the Auror argues, and he has to put down his wand to keep himself from Crucio-ing the stupid fool, who's five years out of Hogwarts and thinks he knows what he's talking about.

"You're going to suggest that we offer Bellatrix her freedom in exchange for information about Weasley."

"She's already implied that that's the only way she'd cooperate, and unfortunately all the normal methods of coercion don't work with her."

"Of course they don't, she's one of the best Occlumensoutthere. But it's funny you should mention this idea... my granddaughter Rose thought about it as well. Rose has always been an exceptionally bright girl."

Rose has always been an exceedingly insufferable know-it-all brat. Of course _she_ would think it'd be a good idea to put the woman who killed his little sister back on the streets.

"No. No. No. And. NO!"

- - -

Malfoy has selective hearing. Words don't mean anything to him, just what he wants them to mean. So, "No. No. No." sounds like "Yes! Yes! Yes!" to his fine ears when he wants it. Which explains a lot about where he went wrong in life, and explains everything about what the three of them, him, Malfoy, and the Auror are doing in Azkaban, waiting for the guards to bring out Bellatrix fucking Lestrange.

He's met Lestrange only a few times. None of those times have been pleasant, and her face and her laugh have haunted his nightmares for decades. He remembers a manic, cackling woman who delighted in doing evil. And he's seen photographs of her. Old photographs of a woman so beautiful and so proud it hurts to know what a monster she was.

But the woman they bring out is alien to him. Her hair is gray and her skin is yellowish and papery: in places it stretches due to hunger, and in other places it sags due to age. Her eyes are empty and cold and she drags her feet when she walks and slumps when she sits. This woman is no longer the legendary beauty, but it's still nearly impossible to believe the wickedness that dwells in her heart.

There's a dreadful quite. The dementors don't help the mood any.

She's the one to break the silence. "Lucius, how has my dear sister been?"

"Much as she has been these past few years."

"Ah."

"Yes."

"You're here about Ronnekins."

"Bella, the Aurors and I think you'd probably be our best bet in catching him."

"I can see how you might think that."

"Mrs. Lestrange," he has to bite his tongue to keep from cursing, "The Ministry would appreciate any information you might have regarding Ronald's whereabouts."

"I think I've done enough harm to the Weasley Family, don't you, Minister?" It's worded like a provocation, but it doesn't _sound _like one. "I am not proud of the part I played in the death of Molly Weasley's only daughter, and I don't think I want to deprive her youngest son of his freedom."

"If you're concerned about the approval of the Weasley family, you have my word that it's OK to tell me where Ron is."

"I'm afraid, Minister," she says, almost timidly, "That your assurances are of no use to my concerns, as last I heard, you had no right to speak on behalf of the Weasley clan. Ronnekins has told me that your father disowned you the day you became Minister of Magic, and the rest of the Weasleys will have nothing to do with you unless it absolutely cannot be avoided. Now, if you got old Molly in here, and _she_ asked me to tell her where her son is, well, I'd be forced to oblige."

"So we'll bring in the fat cow," Malfoy says, and then as an after thought he adds: "No offense, of course."

"No. We are absolutely not bringing my mother in to Azkaban to talk to this thing. Bring out the veritaserum."

"Oh. Veritaserum. How clever," Lestrange taunts. But the Aurors take her by the hair and push a vial of the thing into her mouth. They're using five times the normal dose, and it seems to work.

"What is your name?"

"Bellatrix Lestrange. Though, once it was Bellatrix Black. Unless, do you mean to ask my title?"

"And what is today's date?"

"I don't know. The days blend together."

"And where are we?"

"In Azkaban Prison."

"Ronald Weasley has been your neighbor for the last eleven years?"

"Yes, I've been Ronnekins' constant companion."

"Do you know how he escaped?"

"I know he made it look like a Dementor had kissed him. It was a perfect illusion. Saw it myself. I shrieked and sobbed when I saw it. After eleven years I'd grown fond of Ronnekins, you know."

"Stop calling him that."

"Oh, but Minister, that's how I think of him. My little Ronnekins who's terrified of spiders and kills rats for fun."

"He kills rats?"

"Oh yes. He draws them near with promises of food, and then he skewers them with his silverware. I'm sure the pile is somewhere in his cell."

"Yes. That's true," the Auror confirms. "We found a pile of dead rats, though none of us could understand why he would have such a thing."

"Pettigrew."

"What about old Wormtail?"

"Doesn't matter," he says. "Tell us Lestrange, do you or do you not know where Ronald is?"

"Oh, I might have an inkling of a clue," she smiles sweetly. Even if the vertiaserum is working, Bellatrix is a master Occlumens.

"Bellatrix," Lucius says, pleading, "please, do you know where he is?"

"I know where he was heading."

"And where is that?"

"A place where you'd never find him, unless you knew to look there."

"And where is that."

"I'm not going to tell you. Bring in Molly Weasley and I'll tell her."

And then, Lucius surprises him, and gets down on his knees in front of Bellatrix. "Bella, please, I know you hate me, but Draco is your sister's son. Every minute that Weasley is out there, Draco's life is in danger."

"Get up off your knees Lucius. Ronnekins isn't going to harm the dead."

Lucius blanches. "Draco isn't dead?"

"He might as well be. He's never going to wake up from his Sleeping Death."

"How do you know that? It hasn't gotten into the papers yet. There's no way you could know that."

"Oh, but Ronnekins knows. Ronnekins knows all sorts of things. He knows what Draco's done, and what you've done to Draco, and what you've had Draco do. And he knows what's been done to Hermione. He knows all about _everything_ you've done to Hermione. He knows so many things, that Ronnekins does. Poetry for instance. One line in particular: 'He did not wear his scarlet cloak, for blood and wine were red, and blood and wine were on his hands when they found him with the dead. That poor dead woman whom he loved, and murdered in her bed.' Dreadful, dreadful, isn't it, Lucius? But that's my ickle Ronnekins."

And that's all. Crazy, broken Bellatrix Lestrange won't say a word more on the subject of his little brother, even under the influence of five doses of veritaserum. And he's relieved. He's relieved because now it's Bellatrix Lestrange's fault that they can't find little Ron, and everyone hates her too.

- - -

And then, then, Ron ruins it. Like he's ruining everything. All it takes is a severed ear. It arrives by owl post, along with his morning _Prophet_. At first, he doesn't realize that there's anything wrong. It's just a box, and if it's gotten to him, he assumes, it must be safe, because the Aurors have very strong wards on his house. And it's true that the box is fine; There's a severed ear in it, white and red and dead, but not cursed. It's not even remotely magical, except for the fact that it used to belong to Lucius Malfoy's grandson, who happens to be (or perhaps to have been) a wizard. It was severed with a knife; cleanly cut—there's not an atom of evidence to tie it to Ron, except that, well, it's obvious it's from Ron.

The owl, on the other hand, _is_ cursed. It keels over the moment he opens the box. It bursts into flames, and there's no putting them out until there's nothing left to trace. Even the ashes are cursed. One Auror bursts into flames when he tries to make the ashes speak. Another starts to bleed out of everywhere at once. There's no stopping it; there's no saving them. They die, and Ron's body count goes up by two. God! This can't be Ronald. This cannot be the work of his little brother, who was always a prat but never a murderer. God. He prays. Please let this be a nightmare. Please let it not be Ron.

But it is (and it isn't) and there's no point in praying. The Good Lord doesn't hear the pleas of Judas or Lucifer; traitors are damned, and part of him knows, feels, that this is all his fault. If he hadn't helped Malfoy... if he hadn't... then... everything... but... but...

How was he to know? _She_ trusted him too, damn it. Damn it all to Hell.

Judas had an out. An exit strategy. And Lucifer! Lucifer ruled the damned and was too proud to care for his betrayal and his shame. But him... he's just... just... Damn it Ron.

He knows there's no keeping Scorpius's ear from Lucius. So he goes. He goes to Azkaban and does the thing he doesn't want to do.

He goes to Azkaban. Goes to the bitch, gives her her thirty pieces of silver and tightens the noose around his neck.

"What made you change your mind, Minister?"

"I'm doing this for Ron."

"Really?"

"If he keeps this up, if he kills Socrpius, I'm going to have to give him the Dementor's Kiss."

"You _are_ doing this for Ronnekins then. I'm sure he'd cry for joy if he knew how much you loved him. But if that's the case, I want more."

"More? More?" He's overcome by indignation. "What more can you want? You're Bellatrix Lestrange. Your crimes against humanity are so long and numerous that the only reason you haven't been given the Dementor's Kiss is that Narcissa Malfoy was your sister."

"Give me the Kiss then! Ronnekins will join me soon enough."

"What do you want?"

"I want my wand. I want my fortune. I want full and complete access to my vaults, both the Black and the Lestrange family vaults. I want an assurance that you won't send me back here he instant you've caught Ronnekins. I want a full pardon and a blank slate. And I want the ability to atone for my crimes. I want a child."

"Who would give a child to You-Know-Who's whore?"

"I was many things to Voldemort. But I was never his whore!" And she spits the name _Voldemort_ with such abhorrence that he can't believe his ears. This woman is not Bellatrix Lestrange. The harpy who terrorized the world and killed his sister would have killed a man for nothing more than the _audacity_ to use her lord's name in vain. It's enough to shock him into a stupor. There's a slap in her voice, and it stings him so thoroughly that he agrees to her terms.

"If your information is useful, your freedom is assured; we'll see about the child."

And it's only at night, when he manages to break out of his complete and thorough bewilderment at the fact that Bellatrix Lestrange might have been able to throw the word _Voldemort_, a word which still terrifies him to _think_, around like a dirty rag, that he realizes he's agreed to give Bellatrix Lestrange a child. He has no idea who in his right mind would confide a child to such a woman, and he doesn't know where in the world he'll get a child to give to Bellatrix Lestrange.

The next day, after the woman who destroyed half the families in magical Britain is let free. Released into the temporary custody of her brother-in-law, Lucius Malfoy. She tells them where Ron was heading, and admits he might have left.

Number 12, Grimmauld Place.

It's so fucking obvious he wants to aim a killing curse at his head. It's made almost better when they get there an Ron isn't here. "This place is abandoned. He isn't here." There's contempt in his voice and hope in his heart.

But Bellatrix won't let him keep the hope at all and quickly points out: "He was here! Look! Look! There's food in the cupboards!"

"Yes! Look! Someone was here recently. If you had freed her sooner we would have gotten here in time." Malfoy always has to ruin everything with a sneer.

"Frankly, Mr. Malfoy, I'm not seeing the advantage to freeing her at all. There's clearly nothing here. What little information she had is of no use now."

"It would have been useful earlier!"

"She could have cooperated earlier, too! This is useless. I'm pulling the plug on this stupid operation and sending her back to Azkaban." There's still time to make up for his mistake. Bellatrix's information has been useless.

Suddenly there comes a knock and Lestrange cries out: "Wait! What's that sound?"

"Probably a boggart or a poltergeist," there can be nothing of any importance here. It is imperative that there be nothing of importance here.

"No! Now that I remember, there used to be two bedrooms on this floor, not just the one for cousin Regulus."

More pounding. Bellatrix puts her hands on the wall and follows it: "The door should be… _here_!"

"There's nothing there."

"Don't be daft. Clearly he's hidden it."

"Grandfather! I'm in here!" Little Scorpius Malfoy.

"Scorpius?"

"Scorpius," Bellatrix asks with a mothering tone which grates against his ears, "where are you?"

"I'm in a room with Gryffindor decorations and strange posters that don't move."

"That's Sirius's room! Weasley's charmed the door somehow, but if you pull up the house's old blueprints, you should be able to find it," she explains.

"Let's go!" Malfoy orders.

"I'll stay here and talk to him," Bellatrix offers. There's no malice in her voice and that hurts, a lot.

"Not without ten aurors to keep you company you won't," he counters.

"Fine then. Ten aurors and I will keep you company, is that alright Scorpius?"

"Yeah, that'd be great. Who are you?"

"Oh, I'm your Auntie Bella. How are you?"

_Auntie Bella_. How can such a woman, such a murderous monster say such a thing, with so much love in her voice? And how is he ever going to explain to his own mother why Scorpius's _Auntie Bella_ is out and about.

"I'm really hungry."

"How's your ear?" she asks, tenderly.

"He put me under the Imperious Curse and made me cut it off, but then he grew me another one."

"I'm sorry. They didn't tell me he had you until he sent the ear to his brother. I would have come sooner if I could have." It's a lie. He knows that's a lie, and yet, the timber of her voice sounds so truthful he almost finds himself believing it.

And the two of them, Bellatrix and Scorpius, they talk and talk and talk, until, finally, they're able to get the door visible and then they open it. Lestrange rushes in and holds Scorpius tightly, even though he is a half-blood and Hermione's son. Her voice is reassuring, and despite the fact that she's thin and pale and wraithlike, she looks like a mother, or a grandmother, or an aunt… dare he think it? An _auntie_. His own mother hasn't held him like that in years.

"It's ok," she strokes the boy's hair and he breaks into sobs.

"I thought I was going to die," Scorpius sobs.

"Shh, shh, it's ok, it's ok," she promises, "The bad man has gone away, and we're going to catch him for what he did to you."

Before his eyes Bellatrix Lestrange, the woman who killed his sister, is kind. Compassionate. And it breaks his heart, because someone as rotten and horrid as Bellatrix Lestrange shouldn't be able to change for the better. Not after having tortured and killed his little sister. And boys like Ron, sweet, charming, slightly dense boys, shouldn't grow up to be psychopathic dark wizards.

But at least, at least, if what he sees in front of him isn't some sort of illusion, maybe there might be a fate worse than having Bellatrix for a mother; and he's found a little boy, barely a month old, one of Ronald's orphan, who has no wizarding family and who would have to grow up in a Muggle foster-home if Bellatrix Lestrange didn't so desperately want a child.

What is he thinking? The world has gone mad. Or maybe, he finally has. Harry, Ron, Hermione. They've all gone mad. Maybe it's not such bad company to be in.

Who is he kidding. He could never aspire to be listed in the same breath as those three, even if they have fallen.

**Author's Notes: **Blerg. Percy. Blerg.

Reviews would make me very happy. You know. Just a thought. ;)


	31. Chapter 31

**Title: **And All the King's Horses  
**Genre: **Mystery, Angst  
**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione  
**Rating: **T (But mostly because if The Dark Knight isn't R, then I really don't know what R means... Or M. Whatever)

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. This work is for fun, not profit.

**Summary:** After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.

**Author's Note: **I thought I would start off the new year with another chapter.

**Chapter 31  
In which a mother must look in the eyes of her daughter's killer and chocolate is devoured**

She wakes up late in the day. Arthur is already gone. Off to talk with Percy. What kind of world is she living in that it's a bad sign that her husband is talking to his son? That she has to sleep in to avoid dealing with the sad realities of life?

If she could she would sleep and sleep and sleep, ever more, but there comes a time for sleep to end. Eventually, one just has to get up. She's slept enough, and without the aid of a potion, she won't sleep any more, at least not for right now. There are potions, of course… But even those potions wear off, and after that, one must wake. It's only delaying the inevitable. Unless, well, there are potions that don't require you to ever wake up.

But she would never do that to Arthur and the children.

It's late. It doesn't matter terribly. Arthur won't be back 'til late. The girls are off at school and the boys won't be home. The house is clean, too clean. There's nothing to do, except maybe go out, but she's not going to do that. She hasn't got the energy. She doesn't know what's worse, the whispers, the looks of pity, or the sneers… She could live with all of them, if it weren't for the fact that the situation is so terrible and that she's completely powerless to fix things.

The Aurors… she remembers when Aurors were kind. She remembers Frank and Alice. Before… that dreadful, horrid woman.

No. She can say it.

That fucking murdering bitch.

There are rumors that the Aurors might be offering to let the evil thing—she's torn here, because, she can only say bitch so many times, and there's not enough hatred in the world to describe the miserable wretch that took her little baby girl away from her—the Aurors want to let her go in exchange for Ron. She remembers still the look of absolute hatred on the Aurors who brought her and her accomplices in. They worked harder than she had even thought possible to bring them in, her and her husband and that little snot-nosed Crouch kid, because of what they had done to Frank and Alice. There was a time when Aurors took care of their own. When Aurors cared. But now? What now? The Aurors are the ones that want to let her—that murderer—out.

They won't.

She knows they won't. This is how she sleeps at night. She trusts Percy. Not a lot. She know him, knows he's obsessed with power and entranced by Lucius Malfoy's gold-lined puppet strings, but he's still her son. He's still Ginny's big brother, and Ron's big brother, and he's not going to let Lestrange out of Azkaban. That woman is going to rot in that hell like the festering pile of human excrement that she is. It's not nearly as bad as she deserves. She doesn't know what she deserves. What could be bad enough for that thing? That black-hearted bitch who killed her own sister's daughter, and who killed her poor little Ginny. Azkaban surely isn't. Not even the Dementor's Kiss is bad enough for her.

She believes in God. And she believes in a just God. She believes in a Hell of fire and brimstone, and she believes, with all of her heart and all of her soul that as sure as her little Ginny is dancing with the angels, Bellatrix Lestrange is going to rot in a Hell so horrific it can't even be imagined by human minds.

Between now and then, Azkaban will have to do.

But these are morbid thoughts. She doesn't want to think about Lestrange any more. That harpy doesn't deserve a second thought.

There's no point in making lunch. She's not hungry and Arthur won't be back 'til later. They can have sandwiches for dinner.

She turns on the wireless. Not to the news. She's not going to listen to that. She doesn't read the papers. Even Arthur tries to avoid it. No point in reading about their baby boy (now that Ginny's gone he's not just the baby boy, he's the baby, period) being called all sorts of things.

The things they said her son had done.

None of it is true.

Well, one of those things is true. She knows he cursed Malfoy. She doesn't doubt for a second that he cast the Cruciatus Curse on Malfoy. She's never forgiven Hermione for testifying against him, but she's always believed the girl, and as a mother, she's always understood that children come first. She can't blame Hermione for putting Scorpius over Ron. Doesn't mean she can't hate her. But hatred isn't rational; it's red hot, searing and blinding. She doesn't have to examine it or explain it, it simply is, right there, and even if she did examine it, it wouldn't change a thing.

But it's one thing to curse a Death Eater in a moment of passion, and quite another to go on a murderous rampage.

There's something they're not being told. Or something she's not understanding. She doesn't like to thing about it, but ultimately, she simply doesn't believe that Ron, her Ron, could possibly do something like that. Not in a million years. He wouldn't hurt Frank and Alice. Never.

But she is worried about him. She knows something's not right in his head. And that means that while it isn't _Ron_ doing those things, it could very well be Ron.

The music on the wireless is dreadful. It's strange and disjointed and it hurts her ears. She doesn't like it. She surfs a bit. Nothing on. She turns on the tell-me, or something, some strange Muggle contraption the twins gave Arthur for Christmas last year. It's like a picture, except it talks. People live in it and do things.

Right now there are people, someone named 99 and another one named 86. 86 is an idiot. 99 appears to be significantly more intelligent, except, for some reason she still goes along with 86. It's not a smart story, but she needs to be distracted, so she lets herself be distracted and laughs when the Muggle says "Missed it by that much!"

Next there's a silly little thing about a witch married to a Muggle, or at least, about some daft Muggle's conception of a witch married to a Muggle. It's really very bland, the magic is all wrong, though she does wonder how the Muggles manage to turn that Darwood fellow into a dog without any sort of magic.

Of course, the program isn't nearly as ridiculous as the next one, which is about a "genie." Ha! If genie's were that attractive and that subservient, the human race would have died out eons ago.

The so-called genie, (creatively called Genie) has just given her "Master" x-ray vision, which apparently is very bad, when there's a knock at the door.

She turns the tell-me off and goes down. She hopes it isn't more Aurors. She's already told the blasted imbeciles everything she knows, which, unfortunately, is nothing. Maybe it will be Arthur. That would be good news.

It's not Aurors an it's not Arthur.

For a second, she doesn't see any one, and it's very cold, much colder than she expected, so she's about to close the door when she notices the visitor.

How strange. Andromeda—

No.

It's not.

No.

Fuck.

She doesn't have her wand with her. She left it by the tell-me.

Otherwise, Bellatrix Lestrange would be dead on the ground.

Bugger that. She's heard of wandless magic. She'll try it without her wand. With all the hatred in her soul she wishes for the green light.

"Don't do that," Lestrange says softly, sadly, almost humbly. "The Killing Curse is bad for the soul. And, if you killed me, your son would have the unpleasant task of sending you to Azkaban."

"Funny, I thought that was where you were."

"Minister Weasley signed my release papers yesterday. As of this morning I am a free woman, completely pardoned by the State."

That's a punch to the stomach.

"You're lying." Lestrange is a bitch. Lestrange has tortured and murdered and maimed. Lestrange can kill children without breaking a sweat. Of course Lestrange can lie.

Lestrange simply shrugs and unfurls a parchment, her official pardon, with Percy's familiar signature in big looping letters at the bottom.

"And what? You've come to gloat? Haven't you done enough damage? Haven't you gone far enough in the service of that vile man?"

"I hardly think Voldemort counts as a man," Lestrange says slowly and serenely. "I came to apologize."

She laughs at this, as hard and as cruelly as she can. "Oh, it's Voldemort now, is it? I remember a time when you would have tortured children for saying that name."

"Would Riddle be better? Tom Marvolo Riddle. Is that a better name for him?"

That sends shivers up her spine. She's only heard the name a few times, in reference to a diary she'd rather forget.

"Why come to apologize to me? Why now? You killed my daughter, you bitch, get out, get out, before I kill you. I'll kill you with my bare hands if you don't leave. They can send me to Azkaban, they can give me the Dementor's Kiss, I don't give a damn. You killed my daughter. My only daughter! My baby, and you have the fucking audacity to come here to me and tell me you're sorry and that you're calling Voldermort by his Muggle name these days? Get out, get out! I'll kill you."

It's too much. She can't help it. She breaks down crying and she's about to lunge at the skeletal wraith in front of her when suddenly Lestrange hugs her.

"But I am sorry," Lestrange whispers into her ear. "I am really, truly sorry, for you, for Ginny, for everything." Lestrange's voice is breaking and she realizes that the bitch is crying too. And despite all of this, she pushes Lestrange away. The wraith stumbles over backwards and falls down the stairs onto the lawn. She follows after her, coming after her with everything she has.

She's not as strong as she used to be. But there's fire in her blood, and she can kick and bite and scream, and so she hurts Bellatrix Lestrange, hurts her as much as she can, which will never be as much as she hurt her, and which will never be enough to make things right or even.

It's only after fifteen minutes or so that she realizes Lestrange isn't fighting back or even trying to protect herself. She's just taking everything.

"Fight, dammit, fight back, you bitch."

Lestrange looks up. One of her eyes is turning black-and-blue. "I've fought for so long, and there is fighting still left to do, but not today. If didn't come to fight. I came to say that I was sorry." With difficulty, Lestrange gets to her feet. She stands, very flimsy, and takes a step. "I don't blame you for not forgiving me. I shouldn't have come here, not now, not like this. It was selfish of me. But… I've been in Azkaban so long… I… I needed to do this." And then, Bellatrix just sort of crumples again. She starts to cry like a little child.

Maybe it's the mothering instinct. Maybe it's the shock. Or maybe she's just finally gone daft. Before she can stop herself, she blurts out: "I can never forgive you, but if you want, you can come in for tea."

Bellatrix looks up. There's hope in her eyes. Part of her hates herself for putting it there. Another part of herself can't help but feel good about that. Like when Ron was a little boy and scared during the electrical storms.

"I'd love to come in. If you want, maybe you should go for your wand. I'm not asking you to trust me."

She nods, closes the door, and heads for her own wand. She should floo Arthur. What is she doing, inviting a madwoman and a murderess into her house? But, somehow, it doesn't feel so terrible, and if Lestrange really is dangerous, well, better that Arthur be away.

She breathes in. Fixes herself a calming draft, and opens the door. Lestrange is still there, waiting patiently. She points her wand at Lestrange. "Come in, and don't touch anything."

"Thank you."

She fixes up tea. No sugar. No milk. No cream. Just boiling water over Earl Grey. Lestrange takes the cup meekly and takes a sip from it.

"That's very bitter," Lestrange comments, and puts it down.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she answers, making sure to make it obvious that she is lying. "Would you like some chocolate?"

Lestrange can barely contain her excitement. "Have you got any?"

"Yes. I can't think of any reason why I would give it to you."

Lestrange looks crestfallen, as if though she really was expecting chocolate. "Too bad," she says, and stirs her bitter tea with her finger. "Chocolate's the second best thing in the world for driving off black magic."

She almost drops her tea cup. "Pardon? What did you say?"

"Oh, nothing, I was just… I understand. Murderers don't get chocolate."

"No, no, what did you say?"

"About what?"

"About chocolate and black magic?"

"Oh. Chocolate's the second best thing in the world for driving off black magic."

"And what's the first best thing?"

The person in front of her blinks. "What's the first best thing?"

"Yes. What's the first best thing for driving off black magic?"

"If I told you, you wouldn't give it to me."

She put her hands on her hips. "Tell me anyway."

The person in front of her looks away, towards the family clock. There are three hands missing and many more have been added. It was easier to take off Ron's hand than to have it always pointing to "Azkaban" and Arthur took down Percy's the day he resigned from the Ministry.

"I suppose that the best thing in the world for driving off black magic would be kisses."

She narrows her eyes. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"I really did come to apologize. And to warn you."

"Warn me?"

"Things… Things are not about to get good. It would be a good time to take a permanent holiday, to somewhere very far away. America might be nice. If I recall correctly, there's a Muggle resort in the southern United States. Florida? Or maybe it was California… I'm sure it would keep… Mr. Weasley entertained through any sort of retirement, and Messrs. Weasley and Weasley could surely expand their brand to America. It's a large market."

"You came _here_ from _Azkaban_ to tell me you think I should go on _holiday_?"

"And to apologize."

"And you want me to give you chocolate."

"That would be incredibly helpful."

She sighs. None of this is happening. None of this is real. It's like something out one of those silly stories on Arthur's ridiculous tell-me. "Sit here. I'll fix you up some cocoa and what, do you want just a slab of chocolate? Cake? Pancakes?"

"All three, if it's not too much to ask…" It's utterly surreal to hear Bellatrix Lestrange's voice so mellow and meek.

"Too much to ask? _Too much to ask?_" She laughs and shakes her head. "No. You're probably bone-thin under all that you're wearing, I'll give you all the chocolate I can. Anything you can't eat here you can take away, unless you don't need it. Where are you staying?"

"Malfoy Manor, unfortunately, but that will change, unfortunately."

"Yes, well, you can't stay here."

"I know that. It's fine. I'll manage."

"I know." She goes into the kitchen and fixes everything up as quickly as she can. She brings out a pot of cocoa and a slab of milk chocolate—the cake and the pancakes are making themselves in the kitchen.

It's strange to see Bellatrix Lestrange drinking hot cocoa like a half-starved savage. The first cup is quickly consumed and another is poured. "Now," she says after she pours a third cup, "may I presume that you are keeping disreputable company these days?"

"I admit, my parents would not approve. But when one is as disreputable as I, well, one has only two resources for allies, those who are so reputable, so good and brave, so well loved that nothing can tarnish them, and those who are so tarnished that the word disreputable doesn't mean anything to them."

"And I'm neither."

"No. Neither you, nor your husband, nor any but the youngest of your sons falls into that category. Besides, I don't plan on making any new friends who are worse than the bad ones I already have."

"And how will I explain that I had a visit from Bellatrix Lestrange?"

"Angrily, I imagine."

"Oh yes. What will the Minister of Magic make of it?"

"I imagine he will be utterly and completely horrified. He did not want to release me."

"But he did." Percy, for all he knew, released his sister's killer. That thought closes her throat and makes it hard to breathe. Maybe her anger and anguish is evident, the person in front of her frowns, and she is treated to the singular sight of empathy on the face of Bellatrix Lestrange.

"He didn't want to do it. He hates me as much as anyone else. He even stood up to Malfoy over it. He didn't want to hurt you. But, well, I needed to get out and they needed to find Scorpius Malfoy. I think even that wouldn't have been so important. Scorpius really was in mortal danger, in the hands of a dangerous psychopath, but he might have let him die, if not for the fact that with Malfoy's power and influence he would have succeeded in getting Ron Weasley a Dementor's Kiss for killing his grandson."

"How very noble of the Minister."

There's a bitter laugh; it almost sounds like Bellatrix Lestrange and it sends chills through her bones. "No. The Minister is anything but noble. He's a detestable coward and Malfoy's lackey."

An awkward silence, and then Bellatrix Lestrange's face falls into a sad, self-pitying affair. "You're not angry with me, are you?"

How to answer that? All she can do is shrug and collapse against herself. "This is not happening."

"Maybe it isn't, sometimes I really can't tell. You know, I think I might have been mad before, but now I'm certain I am."

"The whole world is mad."

"Yes. Something went wrong. This isn't how things are supposed to end."

"How are they supposed to end?"

"Differently, I don't know." Bellatrix Lestrange's eyes close. "In King's Cross."

The woman's eyes open, and suddenly there's a wicked glint in them. This is a look that belongs on this face. It's terrifying. She recoils. "Do you want to know how it's supposed to end? Molly? It's supposed to end with a scar. But it doesn't. It doesn't end with a scar. It ends with a happy family, in King's Cross Station, on Platform 9 ¾. Nothing has changed. Slytherins still hate Gryffindors, Gryffindors hate Slytherins, the werewolves, with one dead exception, are wicked, like everyone always says they are. The house-elves, with one dead exception, are docile and domestic, like everyone always says they are. The goblins are nasty, untrustworthy. It's all tied up perfectly with a pretty bow, but the bow is a slip knot." A smile on the woman's face sends chills down from her spine to her fingernails. "It's all saccharine to cover up the tragedy that nothing has changed, nothing of substance.

"That's one way. It's the way things are supposed to end. But it's not the way things end this time. The time for that ending is past: the thief who flies from death has fled, the boy has barely survived. No one can live.

"Does any of this make any sense? Or would it be better if I mooed? Maybe if I spoke as if though speaking to a child; here's a nursery rhyme for you: Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the King's horses and all the King's men couldn't put Humpty Dumpty together again.

"That's it. That's all there is. That's how it will end, not with a train station, but with horses and men and a broken eggshell. Who are the horses and who are the men? I can tell you that: I'm the horse and you are the man, unless, am I the man and you the horse? Of course not, you're the cow."

The raspy voice oozes a malevolent charm. There's pure evil in those lips, lips that just moments before betrayed a thousand good emotions.

Suddenly it's gone. The wicked glint, the villainous smirk, all gone. Eyes are closed, scrunched up, hands are clamped over ears. "Shut up! Shut up!" It's a desperate plea. "You promised… you said… we had a deal… let me do what I must, help me get what I want and you'll get the broken sliver you want."

After, it's like it never happened. There's just a pale weathered woman sitting at the table, eating chocolate.

What to do? Help is needed, but she can't offer it, not to anyone. It's hard. The situation is bad. Without a word, but clasping her wand, she gets up, goes for the finished pancakes and cake. She wraps them up. It takes time. She needs to think and in her state of agitation, magic could easily backfire. No point in running a stupid risk. Better just to wrap it up by hand without the use of magic.

When she comes back, Bellatrix Lestrange is no longer at the table; she's standing close to a cabinet, her hand on a door.

"You know, only a Weasley can open that."

"Yes. I'm quite aware. I am, after all, a pureblood, I'm familiar with that sort of magic arrangement. They're not hard to spot if you know what you're looking for."

"You should go."

"So should you."

"I shall stay. You will leave."

"OK."

"Here is the cake. Here are the pancakes."

There's look of gratitude on Bellatrix Lestrange's face as the other person takes the packages. "Thank you."

"I'll walk you out."

She does. She leads the other out of the house and closes the door in front of Bellatrix Lestrange's nose. She leans against the door. She's so tired now. All she wants to do is sleep and sleep and sleep, and if she never dreams again, well, it will be too soon.

But there is no time to rest. Percy does not know what he has done. He thinks he's done something else, and she must play along with that. Poor Percy. But, on the other hand, how could he? She will go to him and rage and rant and rave. And then she will tell him that this is the last straw. That he is no longer her son. Ginny is lost. Ron is lost. Percy, now, is lost as well. Forever.

She does not look in the cabinet. She has a deep suspicion of what she will find in it, and worse, of what she will not find in it. But, as long as she doesn't open it, she will maintain her plausible deniability.

Speaking of which, where is that old Pensieve?

**Author's Notes_: _**Reviews would be awesome.


	32. Chapter 32

**Title: **And All the King's Horses  
**Genre: **Mystery, Angst  
**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione  
**Rating: **T (But mostly because if The Dark Knight isn't R, then I really don't know what R means... Or M. Whatever)

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. This work is for fun, not profit.

**Summary:** After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.

**Author's Note: **Thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter. This one is for you. Also, computer is on the fritz... this was typed up in Notepad, of all things.

**Chapter 32  
In which a family enjoys lunch and gifts are made  
**

Coming into Malfoy Manor she is greated with the less than pleasant sight of a red-faced Lucius Malfoy. That worthless excuse for a blood-traitor wants to know where she has been. Isn't that an interesting story? Not one she really wants to tell Lucius about. Really, she doesn't want to tell Lucius anything. She doesn't want to talk to Lucius, or see his ugly face. To think, she used to think him attractive. But no. Lucius isn't the sort of man that interest her. Lucius is weak, unresolved, pathetic. Real men have convictions.

Real men...

Ah.

How hard it is to find real men, truly great men...

For the moment she has to deal with Lucius and his red face. How she would love to see him writhing on the floor, screaming his soul out. Or maybe, bleeding his life out. Snape engineered a lovely spell for that. Poor Snape. Now, there was a good man, a man of loyalty and conviction. Poor Snape, she never gave him enough credit in life. But in death, in death...

How easy it would be to kill Lucius.

But she can't. She needs Lucius. And she needs to stay out of Azkaban. Lucius has always known how to stay out of Azkaban. He's always known how to cultivate useful enemies into allies. She needs allies.

So, instead of cursing him, or saying something cruel, she simply smiles and shrugs. "I went out."

"Out?"

"Yes. I've been locked up for so long, I wanted to go out. You remember your first time out of Azkaban, don't you?"

He ignores the question, as she knew he would. "I was about to call the Aurors."

"You don't trust me?" she feigns hurt.

"Bellatrix, I trust you about as far as I could throw you without magic."

"Now, that's hardly fair, dear brother-in-law. Who has kept your secrets better than me?" She doesn't smile, though she could, if she wanted to.

"Are you thinking of blackmailing me?" he asks cautiously.

"I just wanted to point out that in all the years since the last war ended, I never once said anything about the things I know that could ruin you. I wonder what Minister Weasley would say, if he knew the lovely things I know..." She shrugs and smiles. "But the point, dear Lucius, is that he doesn't know and I have no intention of telling him. Why exhume the past?"

Lucius' eyes are unreadable. She knows for a fact, that hers are likewise inpenetrable.

"Well, _where _were you?"

"If you must know, I had a few errands to run. I expect to eventually be able to return to my own residence. I visited both my parents' place and the Lestrange residences. I think Rabastan's little house in Hogsmeade will do nicely for me and the child. I'll be sure to keep extra rooms for Scorpius and Rose should they choose to visit during the school year."

Lucius nods. "You'll be pleased to know, I've made sure to keep the goblins attentive to your gold. You're a much richer woman than you were."

"How kind. of you Lucius. I'll have to see the goblins soon myself."

"Of course."

"Well, I'm sorry if I gave you a scare."

"You are?"

Not in the slightest. She nods her head.

"But, really, would you have enjoyed watching house-elves scurry about?"

"They are such incredibly useless creatures," he agrees.

- - -

Lunch, prepared by the house elves, is delicious. She has to fight with all the self-restraint she has--she never had much, but now there are a million things she must not do and must not say if this is all to work, and that makes it all the harder for her to keep herself from shoveling her food into her mouth like a starving woman. But she is, she is a starving woman. The last time she left Azkaban, there was food, but something greater--she will have it again! Again she will have it! But for that, for that, she must avoid seeming untoward.

Scorpius sits next to her with large adoring eyes. Rose sits next to Lucius. Lucius sits as far away from her as he can. The table at Malfoy Manor is very large. It is good for meetings, but bad for private meals.

Scorpius, filthy half-blood brat that he is, is nice. He likes her, really likes her, which will be incredibly useful. Despite his flaws, and she knows, he has many, she likes him too. There's a certain similarity with Draco, and he reminds her of Narcissa. Poor dead Cissy. Plus, he hates Lucius. That is good. It shows he has a head on his shoulders, which, while far from perfect, is good for something. And that will make him useful. His good heart and his gold will make him useful. Imagine that, a Gryffindor useful! Ron is like that too. Useful Scorpius and useful Ron.

In her hateful way, she loves them, the two of them. She'd never have gotten out of Azkaban without them, and if she hadn't gotten out of Azkaban, well, who would rescue...

Who would rescue...

Who would rescue poor Harry Potter?

She laughs at that, and the whole family, what's left of Cissy's family, looks up at her.

She laughs harder, and then, because he's next to her, she takes Scorpius in her arms and kisses him, wetly, on his cheek. Disgusting half-blood brat. To think, Cissy's line reduced to this! Malfoy has ruind everything, sullied not only his own name, but that of the old and noble House of Black._ La Maison de Black ne sera jamais plus pure. Quel dommage, quelle tragedie. Et alors, quoi en-faire? Rien, rien, on ne peut faire rien. Il faut rire pour ne pas en pleurer. _

So she does, she does laugh. And she contents herself with the thought that Snape, the filthy Half-Blood Prince, was loyal, at least, more loyal than Lucius, or Narcissa, or... or... or all those dirty traitors who sold their blood and their ancestors. Snape was loyal, and Snape was useful, and Scorpius, Scorpius has already proven himself useful and loyal. He will be more so, and her will be loyal to her, unending, unerringly loyal to her, and she is loyal, always and forever, and so, his loyalty and worth is assured. What he lacks in the worth of blood he will more than repay in the worth of loyalty and usefulness. And that is how she can tolerate to hug and kiss the child whose blood is a mix of mud and treason.

"I'm just so glad to be out of Azkaban," she says by way of explaination. Just yesterday I was in a place where there can be no mirth, and today, I am here, where I was so often with my only beloved sister, eating food, real food, and enjoying the company of my poor dead sister's grandchildren." She thinks of something else, something else entirely, and it brings tears of joy to her eyes. "I'm sorry, children, Lucius, I know for you this is a time of grief, but I, I have never been happier in my life." And it's true, in a way, because she has never had more to look forward to. The age of waiting is over, and now, for the first time in decades, she has the opportunity to act, to act and to prove her loyalty and worth. Praised be her Lord.

She kisses the boy again and strokes his golden hair. "Oh dear boy, such a beautiful boy." She strokes his ear--the one he cut off under the influence of the Imperious curse.

"Why were you in Azkaban?" The girl asks. She does not like the girl. The girl is too clever for her own good, or for anyone's good really. And besides, the girl wears the shame of her tainted blood on her face. That girl is all mud, filthy, revolting mud.

Lucius puts his hand over that of the girl. "Now, Rose, I doubt Auntie Bella wants to discuss those matters."

"No, no Lucius, it's fine, provided you believe the children are old enough to understand."

Lucius clearly would rather she not say anything, but he nods his ascent.

"I suppose the simplest answer, the Slytherin answer, would be that I was in Azkaban because I was on the losing side of the last war."

Scorpius, who is no longer in her arms, recoils. "You supported You-Know-Who?"

At least the boy understands respect. The girl is flippant, she says the Unspeakable Name and it is all she can do to keep herself from lunging across the table. The things she'll do for love...

"Yes. I supported the Dark Lord."

Scorpius looks horrified. Rose rolls her eyes. "I was raised in a world that valued certain things, family loyalty, the purity of blood, the sanctity of magic... It's a dead world now, and perhaps it was always fated to die, but we, we who fought in the service of the Dark Lord, could not see that, and we fought for the world of our ancestors and our youth. The last war was the last stand of the old ways."

"You know," Rose says, matter of factly, in a way that recalls the impersonations of the know-it-all mudblood that Draco used to know, "Mother once said that Voldemort was really a half-blood bastard raised by Muggles. Pretty strange that he'd lead the last stand of the pureblood traditions."

_That's a slander! _

"Is that so?"

"Yes. Mother was friends with Harry Potter, she should know."

"I see."

"And anyway, I don't know why you'd want to stand by such an ugly scaly man. It's quite stupid and silly, really, to throw one's lot in with a man who's turned himself half-snake. Grand Father and Father always say how horrid Voldemort was."

"Then, your Granddad and Daddy saw the ligth much earlier than I did. I suspect your Grandmother was instrumental in this. It would have been nice if she had saved me too."

"But you did see the light, right, you're sorry about that, aren't you?"

"I'm very sorry Scorpius," and she is, very, very sorry that she can't kill Lucius and Rose right then and there.

"But, why, why Auntie Bella, would you work for such an evil man?"

"Was he evil? Was he wicked? Yes. Yes. He was all that and more. But he was also charming. You Rosie, think he was horrid and ugly, but he wasn't, not at first. The first time I met him I was six years old, and he was terribly sad. Later I would learn he was using a glamour, but he appeared quite handsome and terribly sad. I felt sorry for him, and I asked him what was wrong. He had been turned away from Hogwarts. It was the only home he had ever known, the only place that had made him happy, and twice, he told me, twice he had been turned away from it.

"Think, Rosie, if what your mother said is true, then the boy who would become the Dark Lord must have been terribly lonely. Muggles don't understand our kind. How dreadful must it have been for the young Dark Lord to be among them? I was six, I knew nothing, only that the poor man in front of me was terribly sad. And think, what would have been of history if Albus Dumbledore had given him the job?

"But what would have been of history if Albus Dumbledore hadn't meddled in it, eh Lucius?"

And now Lucius is torn, between expressing his hatred of Dumbledore, and not wanting to speak ill of the great War Hero. Finally, "It would have been very different."

"Yes. There would never have been a Grindenwald, and then..."

"Wait," Scorpius asks, right on cue, bless her sister's grandson, "Dumbledore defeated Grindenwald..."

"That was only necessary because he helped Grindenwald establish himself in the first place. Don't they teach this at Hogwarts?"

"At Minerva McGonagall's school?" Lucius asks. "Of course not."

"Wait, what's all this?" Rose asks.

"Dumbledore was great friends with Grindenwald."

"More than friends, if the rumors are true," Lucius adds with a smirk. He always was one for speaking ill of the dead.

"Wait, what, I don't get it," Rose says.

"The historical record is quite clear, Dumbledore and Grindenwald were very close friends and some of the leading research suggests that Albus Dumbledore played a crucial role in creating the ideology which we now identify with Gellert Grindenwald. Certainly, the phrase, 'For the Greater Good,' was used often in their correspondence and may very well have been Dumbledore's creation," Lucius explained.

"But, Dumbledore was a good man!" Scorpius protested.

"The best of us make mistakes, Scorpius. Mistakes we pay for time and time over, with interest and blood. When I was a silly girl at Hogwarts all of my friends, my family, everyone who meant anything to me at all, supported a charming man with a vision that fit into the established order. I had pledged myself to him when I was ninteen, and for that, I have spent decades locked up in Azkaban. And now, now, my life is wasted, and I see the error of my ways, but I have you, dear Scorpius, to thank for my redemption. Of course, I do think I'm not quite as badly off as Dumbledore was."

"What?" Scorpius asks.

"Well, I don't have to live with the guilt of having killed my sister, or of having put the love of my life away forever."

"Dumbledore killed his sister?"

"Ariana, probably," Lucius confirms.

"But what's this about Dumbledore's love? I've read _Hogwarts, A History_ a million times, and Dumbeldore never ever got married or even had any sort of meaningful relationship with a woman," Rose protests.

"Ah, but who said Dumbledore was in love with a woman?" Lucius asks, a smile on his face. Scorpius blushes, but Rose doesn't seem to get it. She is only 11 years old, after all.

she supplies the answer, "Rose, dearest, there is evidence to show that the great love of Dumbeldore's life was none other than Gellert Grindenwald."

And there, it's done, the children are thinking about Dumbledore and Grindenwald, and what it means for Bellatrix who loved Lord Voldemort that Dumbledore who loved Grindenwald...

- - -

After lunch Lucius has to the Ministry and to Hogwarts. Rose will return tomorrow, but Scorpius is in danger of being suspended, or perhaps even expelled. Rose seems pleased with the prospect, and in equal measure, Scorpius is trying to hide his utter panic.

He holds her hands as if though they were a security blanket. "Auntie Bella, you don't think they'll expel me, do you?"

"No poppet, they won't." She strokes his hair back and holds him tightly. "But even if they do, it won't be the end of the world. There's always Drumstrang, which, notably, has a much lower casualty rate than Hogwarts, and if you prefer to stay in England, I can teach you everything you need to know. You know, dear boy, I taught your father Occlumensy. He's a clever one, that one. When he's better you'll have to ask him how he managed to mend the Vanishing Cabinet all by himself."

He smiles weakly at her, but she can tell he's still worried. He's not an Occlumens yet...

"Look, poppet, I've got a gift for you. And you too, Rosie, come here."

Interested, Rose comes along. From her pockets--how wonderful it is to have real robes with real pockets--she pulls out two small parcels wrapped up in green cloth. She puts one on her lap and unwraps the other one. There is a ring inside of it. "Give me your hand, poppet," she says to Scorpius, and she puts the ring around his finger. "There, you see, that's an old family jewel, from the Blacks, your grandmother's side of the family. Whoever wears that is the patriarch of the family. Whenever you feel lonely at Hogwarts, just look at that and know you come from a long line, and that if nothing else, you have me, and I love you."

He smiles. Poor boy. It's not really his fault his mother's a mudblood. She really does like him, as far as she can.

She unwraps the second gift and presents a necklace to Rose. "This belonged to my mother." She takes the necklace and wraps it around Rose's neck, but the clasp won't close. Try, try, as hard as she tries, the clasp won't close.

"I can't get it closed... I haven't tried to close a necklace in ages... turn around." Rose does as told, but seeing it, she can't get it closed. Finally she gives up. "I'm sorry, one of the house elves must have broken it. I'll get it fixed and I'll see to it that the house elf is punished accordingly."

Rose nods. She doesn't look too disappointed.

- - -

Back in her room, the room that was always hers when she stayed in Malfoy Manor, she looks into the mirror. How old she is. How dreadfully old, and mortal she looks. Repulsive.

She takes her mother's necklace--the clasp closes without a problem around her neck, and the jewel lights up her face just a bit.

Later, she asks Scorpius if he will agree to wear the necklace. "I think I've got it fixed. A simple repairing charm ought to have done the trick, but I don't want to give it to your sister until I'm certain." He nods and puts the necklace on. There's no problem in closing it, and she hasn't done a thing to it.

She smiles and pats his head.

How very, very interesting.

Just to be sure, she gives it to Rose again. No one can get it to close.

"I'm going to have that house elf stick his head in the oven," she says as she takes the necklace away.

Ron will want to hear about this.

**Author's Notes_: _**Reviews would be awesome.


	33. Chapter 33: Forword

**Title: **And All the King's Horses  
**Genre: **Mystery, Angst  
**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione  
**Rating: **T (But mostly because if The Dark Knight isn't R, then I really don't know what R means... Or M. Whatever)

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. This work is for fun, not profit.

**Summary:** After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.

**Author's Note: **I had originally planned a chapter about Neville Longbottom. I'm glad I didn't. I don't know if you will be. Not all the bits are in chronological order, though I think if you read carefully it becomes obvious what the order of events is. Tell me if it doesn't.

**Foreword  
In which a vow is broken**

It had not been an Unbreakable Vow. The penalty for breaking it would not be the loss of her life, but the loss of her soul. This was a vow of a different sort, beyond the scope of magic, even.

_To have and to hold  
from this day forward;  
for better, for worse,  
for richer, for poorer,  
in sickness and in health,  
to love and to cherish,  
'till death us do part_.

That, she had solemnly vowed, and he, in turn, had done likewise. She had given herself to him, and he to her, and never once has she wavered. And the truly terrible thing, is that neither has he. He has done many things, things for which she loved him, things for which she feared him, and things for which she would reproach him, but never has he wavered, never has he hurt her.

She knows how this started. She was there when it did. At first…

At first he was foolish. And then…

And then he was committed. Afterwards…

Afterwards he was concerned. Finally…

Finally everything was over. Until…

Until, until it started up again. He wasn't foolish, or committed, not like some of the others, but he was concerned and he was afraid.

He was afraid, but he could not show it. He would not show it, and though things got worse, so much worse, and the world became dark and poor, and all health fled from their lives, she loved him still. And he loved her. Loves her. Maybe it would have been better if he had not loved her. Men in love, men in love can be desperate. Fear turned to despair.

That was all.

That was all _he_ needed.

_to love and to cherish,  
'till death us do part_.

But death _has_ parted them.

Death has parted them in so many ways. For _he_ has parted them, and what is he, but Death? And Death has taken him from her. And finally, he is dead. Though his heart may beat and his brow may sweat, he is dead. The man she loved, the man she married, he is dead, another casualty in this stupid war.

She will break her vow. She will betray him. It will be fine, because the vow is already broken, rendered null and void by fate and circumstance.

So she goes to the other, for if _he_ is Death, then surely the other one is Life, and what she wants is life. Not the life of the man who is already dead. Not her life. But the life of the boy, the boy who looks so much like his father, or who did look so much like his father, before _he _destroyed him, the boy who is in danger, even now, of following his father into a living grave.

She makes it very clear. All she wants is one life. No more, no less. And she makes it very clear which life it is that she wants. She half expects that he will say no, and that this, everything will be for naught. But not really, because she knows that he is good and kind, and, and, it's really such a pity he isn't friends with her son. He is tired, and worried, and like her son in danger of the living death which has claimed the man she loves. She offers him what little she can. It isn't much, and it isn't all of it…

Heavens, she could never say all of it.

But, she can say enough, the essentials, and she can pray that it will be enough, enough for the worn boy to rescue the poor little girl. She has never had a daughter, has never wanted a daughter, but she is a mother, and the girl's torment breaks her heart. She cannot stand the screams and the knowledge that the person who creates them is so closely bound to her by ties of blood and love. But it's not for the girl that she's doing this. It's for her son. That's all that matters.

And fortunately, the other, this worn boy-god, this sad little child who must shoulder the burden of being Life against Death, of being the Light against the Dark, understands that.

More than anything, he understands a mother's love. So he agrees. Proud woman that she has always been, she breaks and weeps, and would wash his feet with her tears. He's not so far broken that he can stand that, he pulls her up, and hold her. She is the mother of his rival, the bride of his enemy, an unwilling servant of his adversary, and yet, he picks her up and holds her. His desperation rivals her own, and for the first time she feels the ancient ill that her and hers have done.

"Thank you, thank you," he whispers into her ears. Again and again. Doesn't he understand? It is she who should thank him.

"Stay," he says, "I will protect you."

"But then, who will protect my son?"

He smiles and lets her go. "Afterwards, afterwards, I will. Him and you and your husband."

And how can she say it? How can she explain that her husband is already dead, so the man who loves her has to die? She can't. She can't, not without undoing everything. She has not been entirely truthful. She can't. If she is there will be no saving her son, and her son cannot pay for the sins of his father. So all she does is shake her head, "No, no, that won't be necessary. Just my son, please, just my son. I don't care what happens to me, or to my husband, but please, protect my son."

"Very well," he nods, and she leaves.

- - - -

She had thought it could get worse only one way. All of them are upon the shores of Acheron. If only they could drink of it, oblivion would be sweet. Her husband, who she would and will follow into Hell itself, is nearly broken, unmade, unmanned.

And then, suddenly, it gets much worse. Upon his face she reads that the broken man is shattered. Trembling, he explains what he is to do, how, and why.

"It isn't worth it!" she whispers, hurriedly, quietly, and desperately. The walls have ears, but, the risk is worth it. "We can leave."

"No, we can't. We can't leave. This is it. Everything is over."

"Not everything," she holds his hand. If he cannot leave, she will not. She whispers into his ears that old promise that she made him, so many years ago. She was young and foolish and naïve, never then did she think the world would come to this, but she had known one thing, and she had known it well. She had known she would love this man until the heavens fell, and she would stand by him until Death came between them.

_To have and to hold  
from this day forward;  
for better, for worse,  
for richer, for poorer,  
in sickness and in health,  
to love and to cherish,  
'til death us do part_.

He is shattered into a million pieces, but she will pick up the shards and put them together again.

The world is falling down all around them. They are dying, but their love is eternal. Sweetly, sweatily, steadily, they make love, like they did on that first night.

He is hers to have and to hold, for better and for worse, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, and she will love and cherish him until death can come between him.

She will pick up the pieces and put him together again. And if the shards cut her hands and the cost of it is her own life blood, so be it.

- - -

He returns to her and the blood is on his hands. She remembers the first time he came back. The first time he cast the green curse. Then they were young and stupid little fools. He was drunk with power, high on darkness, and with all the life that coursed through his veins he took her, then and there, upon the stairs, and made love to her. Because he had killed, he was alive, and it did not bother her. She never saw the body, never knew it had a face, and after all, dust is dust, man is made of clay and mud must be returned to the ground.

But the girl, she isn't made of dust, or clay, or mud, but of flesh and blood, and she is all over her trembling husband.

This is different from that first killing curse. This is personal and tangible and visceral, and it stinks of copper and of death.

His blood-stained hands tremble, his eyes see nothing, his steps falter, and it is up to her to take the crippled, shattered man she has vowed to have and to hold, and take him in her arms, and lead him to their bath. She holds him as he trembles and kisses him as he cries.

"It isn't worth it," she whispers in his ears, he is on top of her, limp between her in the pink water. "Let's escape."

"There is no escape," he whispers hoarsely, "This is it. Everything is over." And then he will say no more.

This time, the act of love-making is nothing more than wiping him clean of the blood and the sin. Even now, she kisses his murderous hands and loves him. Blood is on his hands, but she will clean them and heal them, even if the salve is her own life blood.

- - -

It is much the same the next night.

- - -

And the next night.

- - -

And the night after that.

It cannot get worse.  
Gradually, it begins to get better. The broken man seems to be picking up his own pieces. His hands shake less and less; he sees; his steps are steady. There is still blood on his hands, but he can wash it off without her help.

- - -

Except, it has been getting worse. Much, much, much worse, though she doesn't know it until it is too late. She sees him smile. It is not his smile. It is _his_ smile. The smile of Death on her lover's face. She hears him laugh _his_ laugh. He even brags.

"It doesn't know how to talk. I'll teach it how."

_It_. There is no it, at least not the one her husband is talking about. That _it_ is a little girl.

No. There is an it, and _it_ is her husband.

And suddenly, she knows, it is over. The man she married is dead, and so her husband must die. If her son, the only good thing left of her husband, if her son is to live, then, then, her husband has to die. And she will kill him. Not directly, no. She will do it with a bitter look and with a kiss.

She must seek out the other. The one who can oppose Death himself and preserve the Life she gave, once, so long ago…

- - -

_"Stay," he says, "I will protect you."_

_"But then, who will protect my son?" _

_He smiles and lets her go. "Afterwards, afterwards, I will. Him and you and your husband."_

_And how can she say it? How can she explain that her husband is already dead, so the man who loves her has to die? She can't. She can't, not without undoing everything. She has not been entirely truthful. She can't. If she is there will be no saving her son, and her son cannot pay for the sins of his father. So all she does is shake her head, "No, no, that won't be necessary. Just my son, please, just my son. I don't care what happens to me, or to my husband, but please, protect my son."_

_"Very well," he nods, and she leaves. _

- - -

He does it with a flattering word; he does it with a sword.

His gentle fingers wrap around her. How many times those fingers have touched her, caressed her, loved her. But the time for love is over. Everything is over.

She is surprised but she finds it fitting. Their marriage is ending, so let it end.

"It isn't worth it!" she tries one last time. "There must be another choice."

"There is no choice."

"This is it. Everything is over." And then she will say no more.

_To have and to hold  
from this day forward;  
for better, for worse,  
for richer, for poorer,  
in sickness and in health,  
to love and to cherish,  
'till death us do part_.

Death _has_ parted them.

Death has parted them in so many ways. For _he_ has parted them, and what is he, but Death? And Death has taken him from her. And finally, he is dead. Though his heart may beat and his brow may sweat, he is dead. The man she loved, the man she married, he is dead, another casualty in this stupid war.

This is only one more way to part them.

The man she loves is dead. She wonders if she will see him. Wonders, hopes, and prays. For him, for her, for their son.

And as she wonders, wonders, hopes and prays, there is nothing in the world but his eyes, the murderous eyes of the dead man whom she loved, and who loved her.

**Author's Note: **This is perhaps the darkest thing I've written to date. I really, really, really like it, and would love some feedback. This chapter is intended to answer a few important questions, some of which you may not have been asking yourselves.

I'm afraid however, that this may be one of the most obtuse chapters in a while. Opinions?


	34. Chapter 34

**In Which Sanity Is Restored.**

He knows it used to be quite common, during the dark days of the war, for teachers to be summoned by the Headmaster in the middle of the night, but he's always been the Herbology Master in times of peace, so he's more than a little shaken when Minerva McGonagall's anxious disembodied voice wakes him up an hour before dawn. There's a curt order to come to her office, which is intimidating enough and isn't helped by her order to come right away; no need to get dressed, she needs to speak with him, now, as soon as possible, face-to-face.

The walk from his chambers in the Gryffindor tower to the Headmistress's office is long, made longer by the dread and cold of night. Anxiety propels him forward, he's walking briskly, almost running, and still the walk seems to go on forever. What is going on? What is the matter.

He can think of only one reason whey the Headmistress would call him out of bed at this ungodly hour. Or rather, may reasons: Voldemort is back from the dead, a mass-breakout at Azkaban, a murder at Hogwarts, but he doesn't need to be brilliant Hermione Granger to intuit that this concerns her son.

They've found Scorpius Malfoy.

But why can't this wait until morning? Unless, what state could they have found him in? If Ron really had him, and if Ron really has become that wretched monster described in the _Prophet_, what then to expect of Scorpius's state? Torn to shreds and pieces? Or worse, reduced to less than nothing, like his parents? And what will that do to little Rose? Rose, who has lost her mother and her father, and maybe now her brother. If Scorpius is gone that will leave just her and her grandfather.

The thought sends shivers up his spine. He knows the girl loves her grandfather, but that man is a wretched bastard, and he can't help but tremble at the thought of what Lucius Malfoy might do to a precious little girl like Rose.

When he finally gets to the Headmistress's office, there is no need for passwords: the doors are open, waiting for him. He stops for half a second to catch his breath, and then climbs up to the Headmistress.

He finds her staring out the window, shoulders slumped; never has she looked so old, so worn, so ragged.

"Neville?"

She calls out to him, her eyes don't leave the great black expanse outside her window.

"Yes Minerva?"

"Would you like some tea? Perhaps some hot cocoa?"

It's a terrifying offer, because Minerva McGonagall rarely coddles students and never coddles teachers.

"Hot cocoa would be fine," he tells her, and then thinks maybe he would have done well to ask for Firewhiskey.

Minerva waves her wand and cup and saucer appears before him. He picks up the cup and suddenly it is full of sweet, steaming brown drink.

"Something very bad has happened," he offers.

She turns around and her eyes are clear and hollow; if he didn't know any better, he might think she has just been crying, or else, that she is holding back tears. "Indeed." She sits down at her desk and waves a cup of coffee into existence for herself. "You know, they've found Scorpius Malfoy."

"I thought this was about him. Is he alright?"

"I've barely had a chance to speak with him. He seemed very shaken."

"So then, he's fine, or as fine as could be expected?"

"As fine as could be expected, I suppose. Ron… Ronald Weasley cut off his ear and sent it to the Minister. It seems he healed the ear, but then left the boy to starve locked up at the old Order headquarters. Scorpius was terrified when they found him."

"But other than that, he's fine? When can I expect to have him in school again?"

"That will depend on the Wizengamut."

"What? Why? What do they have to do with anything?"

Minerva sighs. "There's some evidence to imply that Scorpius may have been complicit in Ronald's escape. If the Wizengamut finds he's guilty, Scorpius will not only be expelled from Hogwarts, but he may be facing a life sentence in Azkaban."

"Fuck." The word slips out before he can catch himself.

"That's how I feel as well."

"Everything has just gone to Hell for that family."

Minerva sighs and hangs her head. "Maybe their time of reckoning has come."

"Do you think they'll find him guilty?"

She shrugs. "How am I to know? If Lucius liked him, I know there are strings he'd be able to pull, but I think Lucius wants to know, just as much as anyone at the Wizengamut what Scorpius's role in Ronald's escape was, and if Scorpius did help, I think Azkaban might be preferable to facing the wrath of Lucius Malfoy.

"But you tell me Neville, do you think he's guilty?"

How is he to know? He doesn't know Scorpius at all. Has never wanted to. Doesn't really want to, even now. "I don't know. He's always been quiet and reserved. Smart but shy. He's a melancholy boy. I never really thought he would be a man of action, not like Draco or Lucius, not even like Hermione. He was an eye witness to Ron's torturing of Draco; I can't imagine what that would feel like. If anything, I would have thought that he would have been too afraid of Ron to do anything with him. But you know, the Hat must have put him in Gryffindor for a reason, and I do know he loves his mother more than anything in the world. If for any reason he thought that helping Ron escape might help his mother, that might provide enough incentive to overcome his fear and hatred of the man who tortured his father."

Minerva looks away. This is clearly not what she wanted to hear.

"Rose will be returning to Hogwarts today. Lucius has a meeting with Slughorn."

"Should I meet with him as well?"

"No. Lucius has indicated to me that he's too busy to deal with Scorpius's head of house, especially since Scorpius will not be staying here until his trial is finished; Lucius has to deal with Scorpius's lawyers.

"But, you should be aware that Scorpius will be coming to the castle tomorrow to recover his things. He'll come with a team of Aurors. It would be best if you could arrange to have the Gryffindor common room and bedrooms empty when he comes tomorrow; I believe he'll be arriving at ten."

"Understood. I'll make sure the students are out."

Minerva shakes her head. "Neville, I didn't call you here in the middle of the night to tell you that they'd found Scorpius and that he'd be coming to pick up his things. All of that could have waited until morning."

He doesn't understand. He can't help but feel that Hermione would have understood. Is that pity he sees in McGonagall's eyes? When she next opens her mouth he knows that it is.

"Neville, when Scorpius comes to pick up his things tomorrow, he will be joined not only by Aurors, but by someone else. The Minister has requested permission for Scorpius's family escort to join him at the Castle and in the Gryffindor common room. Try as I might to find a reason to deny that request, it's very clearly written in the charter that I must admit guests at the behest of the Ministry and Governors."

He doesn't understand.

"But the wars destroyed the Malfoy family; Scorpius has no family other than Lucius. Unless, is one of the Grangers coming? Do you want me to muggle-proof the Tower?"

To his shock, she buries her face in her hands and lets out a half-sob half-laugh. "I _hate_ Percy Weasley," she spits out with a vehemence he has rarely seen in the Headmistress since the end of the last war.

She looks up and takes a deep breath. Tears are silently beginning to make their way down her cheeks. Neville still doesn't understand, but suddenly he is terrified.

"What's wrong?"

"Neville, in a way, you will always be an 11-year-old first year Gryffindor in my eyes. I will always want to protect you like one of my Gryffindor cubs, and if there were any way I could avoid you finding this out, I would do it.

"In order to find Scorpius, Minister Weasley had to strike an uncomfortable bargain with someone who had information."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean simply, that no one had any idea where Ronald Weasley had taken Scorpius, and after Ronald sent Percy Scorpius's ear, it became absolutely essential to find him. Only one person had access to Ronald Weasley for the last decade, and only one person knew the monster he's become in Azkaban well enough to know where he might have taken Scorpius."

"I don't understand." He doesn't. If he did, if McGonagall is saying what she's saying…

"The Grangers are not coming. No one knows what happened to Hermione's muggle family after she married Draco. She probably severed ties with them. There's one more relative that Scorpius has. His great aunt, Draco's aunt."

"No."

"Unfortunately, yes."

"No. That's impossible. Scorpius Malfoy isn't _worth_ _her_ freedom. They should have let the little bastard _rot_ before letting that bitch out of her squalid cell in Azkaban!"

"You don't mean that!"

"Don't you _dare_ tell me what I mean! That sniveling little bastard should have been put in Slytherin, except he hasn't got the brains for it! Idiot! I hope he rots in Azkaban. I hope they give him and Weasley the Dementor's Kiss!"

Minerva reaches out for him; he pulls back.

"Neville, you don't mean that. Scorpius is you student and Ronald is your friend."

"Last time I checked, friends don't help the woman who destroyed your life escape from prison. What that, that thing did to my parents has no name. And now, she's out and free—

"Yes. Free and pardoned by the Minister. There's nothing we can do about it. I've spent hours arguing with the Minister. I was there when Molly Weasly stormed into his office uninvited and ragged to explain that Lestrange had been by the Burrow. I sat there while the hurt in Molly Weasley's eyes turned to hatred. The Minister doesn't care that Bellatrix Lestrange killed his little sister. He's a man who understands nothing but clear-cut rules and the sound of Malfoy gold. He'd put his own mother in Azkaban and give his brother the Kiss if he thought that was what the law required. You'll remember the help he gave Hermione Granger when she asked for it."

He is silent.

She continues. "The Minister has pardoned Lestrange. I do not agree with it. I lost too many good friends to that woman. But unfortunately, the state of the law is that unless she breaks the law again, she is safe from Azkaban. I do not trust her. I had hoped that you might be able to keep an eye on her. But, now I see that that is not prudent. Please make sure that the students are out of the tower, and I'll attend to Scorpius and his aunt myself."

"I'll make sure the students are out of the tower." It's someone else's voice that says it. It must be someone else's voice. He, he is so very far away. How could it be him?

It doesn't matter. Lestrange is coming. Lestrange is free. He knows what he must do. He knows what it will cost. But it doesn't matter. What is his life worth? Not much. Nothing, even… A lifetime in Azkaban for the death of Bellatrix Lestrange? It's not much to give up. Is this how Dumbledore's father felt?

Now that he knows what he must do, he is calm. This just shoes that life imprisonment was not enough. It's too easy to get out of Azkaban. Lestrange has done it twice. What is needed is a more permanent solution.

"You know what, Minerva, don't worry about it. I'll do it. I'll keep an eye on her for you, and on the Malfoy boy."

McGonagall arches a brow. "Are you sure?"

"If Molly Weasley can live without killing Lestrange, so can I. Let her see how pathetic she has become, that not even her enemies care."

She places a hand on his shoulder. "Neville?"

"It's fine. But if you'll excuse me, it's late, and I must wake early tomorrow."

"I'm sorry."

"Why? It's not your fault?"

He gets up, and without another word, he leaves.

Eight hours later, he is still a free man. His hands are no dirtier now than they were when he was dragged out of his bed that morning.

His hands are shaking. He spills firewhisky as he pours himself another glass.

Of all the stupid, impossible things…

Scorpius loves his aunt.

The boy who returned was not the boy who left. He is sadder, sorrier, weaker. More broken, more pathetic. His eyes are sunken and glassy. It's clear from how he moves that he fears his own shadow. That is what Ronald Weasley did to Hermione Granger's son. One thing brings light to his eyes, confidence to his gaze, and that thing is the wretched Bellatrix Lestrange.

And she, she is wicked, vile still. He sees she hasn't bothered to bury her wickedness very deep, but Scorpius loves her. Is devoted to her. Not in the mad way that she was devoted to Voldemort, but in the way that a child might be devopted to his mother in a thunderstorm. And when Bellatrix looks at Scorpius, she does so with a smile. Her voice is so soft, you'd never think I possible of screaming out _Crucio_.

So Lestrange has come and gone. She is still free. Still alive. She has taken from him his certainty.

Scorpius looks at her like he looks at Hermione.

He pours himself another glass. Then another. At a point he realizes that if he drinks any more, he will be ill tomorrow. He pours himself another glass.

Knock.

Knock. Knock.

He looks at his clock. It's late, students shouldn't be knocking, unless something is wrong. _Oh fuck_. _Not tonight_, he prays and magics the firewhisky away.

He stagers to the door and opens it. He is greeted with the sight of a wand aimed directly at his nose. Behind is the gaunt face of a withered man, and it's not until the man speaks that he recognizes him:

"I need your help."

"Ron?"

"Yes. Let me in or I'll blast your face off."

"What, how did you get into Hogwarts? We have wards!"

"Not very good ones, clearly. Let me in."

"What? It's because of you that—

Suddenly he's sitting behind his desk. "Holy shit, did you just put me under the Imperious curse?"

"You wouldn't let me in."

"Because you're a wanted criminal and a murderer and it's because of you that—

"Shut up. I need your help."

"What? Why would I help you? It's your fault—

"It's about Harry. I know how to fix him, but it's not a one-wizard spell. I need your help."

"Wait, Harry, Harry Potter?"

"No, Harry the Prince. Of course Harry Potter. I know how to fix him. I need to fix him. But I need your help."

"You're insane."

"Probably. I still know how to—a spider. I _hate _spiders. _Imperio_." He can't believe his eyes as the man who doesn't look or sound like Ron, but _is_ Ron, plays with the cursed spider. "You remember this class? _Crucio_. Don't worry. I'm bored now. _Avada kavada_. So. Harry. I need you to help me fix him."

"You're completely off your rocker"

"You would be too. Listen, this is important. I haven't got a lot of time. I need you to come with me to help Harry."

"Are you completely mental?"

"Yes. I've established this. Can we move on? I can cast the imperious curse on you again, or you could be a good Gryffindor and help me help your friend."

"If you knew how to cure him, you'd have done it a long time ago."

"Hmm. Was kinda distracted, bein' in Azkaban and all that. You know how interesting dementors can be, don't you poppet? Anyway, you have 'til the count of three before I make you come. If you're afraid, you can say you were coerced."

"I can say I was coerced?" He can't believe the fucking nerve. Or is it just simple insanity? He's not exactly a stranger to madness, but the madness of his parents is a quiet one. Not like this.

"Yes, when Rita Skeeter calls you tomorrow, you can tell her that you, head of Gryffindor House had to be threatened to go help Harry Potter. Now let's go."

And now, he knows insanity must be contagious, because he's going.

Harry Potter is supposed to be in a top security facility. He has access. Ron Weasley does not. All it takes is a smile on his face and an invisibility cloak and they're both in. He can't help but wonder what the security is like at St. Mungo's if all it takes to break in here is an invisibility cloak.

"What kind of top security place is this?" He wonders out loud.

"Does it matter? Anyone can break into a vault at Gringotts, filthy goblins. It doesn't take a genius to break out of Azkaban or get into Gryffindor Tower. All you need is a little luck. But don't worry. This invisibility cloak is special. So special it doesn't exist. Since it doesn't exist, they haven't protected this place against it. Silly oversight on the part of Miss Hermione Granger, but what can one really expect from a girl like her?"

Something in that remark makes the hair on his arms stand up. "What do you mean 'a girl like her'?"

"Nothing. Besides, she knew Ronald Weasley would have the Peverell cloak, so why would she have any need to safeguard against it?"

"You really are nutters. When they find you, they should take you to the mad house."

A nasty smile creeps up Ron's face. "I think that's going against the natural order of things."

He's about to ask what that means, but they've come to the door of Harry's room. He puts his hand on the doorknob and turns. The door opens to reveal the familiar room, thought the temperature is freezing. In the center, Harry Potter, the boy who lived, is sitting, tied to a chair.

Behind him, Ron pushes him into the room and locks the door.

"Is everything ready poppet."

"Yes," comes the answer.

Suddenly he realizes there's a fourth person in the room, sitting by Harry with his back to the door. The man gets up. Its… Ron Weasley.

He was never a star pupil at anything other than herbology, but he knows that it's impossible to be in two places at once. Not even portraits can do it. That means one of the two Rons isn't Ron, which leaves the very interesting question of which one is Ron, and who the other person is.

His stomach sinks, as instinctively he knows who the other person is. He whips out his wand to attack the woman disguised as Ron behind him, but before he can even properly grab it, he's been hit with a spell, thrown against the wall, and his wand is in the hands of Ron Weasley.

"That's how you got into the castle! You never left with Scorpius!"

Bellatrix, still disguised as Ron, claps wildly. "Look poppet, I guess he's not as dumb as all that. More useful than mummsy or daddy."

"You bitch, I'll fucking kill you."

"You killed Nagini." It's Harry. His voice is cold and alien.

"Yes," Ron-Bellatrix answers. "He killed Nagini."

"You sliced her head off, with the Sword of Gryffindor."

"Yes."

"And I know you. But you don't look like yourself. Weasley. No red hair, but Weasley? Yes. Two. Not twins. Wait, wait, no. No. I _know_ you. You're not one of the Weasleys. You'd never be caught dead gallivanting with muggles and mudbloods.

"You killed Sirius Black."

"I did," she answers with a touch too much pride for someone who claims to be reformed.

Harry pulls against his restraints and shouts obscenity after obscenity. He hurls violent curses, but the magic is undirected and wandless, and nothing happens.

Ron, the real one, walks up to Harry and slaps him across the face, hard. Harry's glasses fly off and his green eyes are suddenly full of shock and nothing more.

"Ron?" Harry's voice trembles.

"Yes, Harry?"

"She killed Ginny."

Sorrow comes over Ron's face, and for an instant he can almost forget the sheer madness of the situation. Harry begins to cry. Ron looks like he would like to hug his friend, but can't because Harry is tied to a chair, and for the first time it occurs to him that this might be for Harry's own good.

"As touching as all of this is, can we get on with this? Is everything ready?" asks Ron-atrix.

"The potion is ready. As soon as the polyjuice wears off, you can drink it." Ron answers.

"Ron, what the hell is going on?"

"Bellatrix and I are going to fix Harry."

"What am I doing here? You were here, so you didn't need me to come to help you get in."

"You know," says Bellatrix, the more he talks, the less I like him."

"Oh, shush, you never liked him."

"True."

"You're right. We didn't need you to get in. Hermione and I set up the wards a long time ago. No one but Hermione and I can change them. Hermione didn't bother once I was arrested, and while it might have been prudent to change the wards after I escaped from Azkaban, the only person who could do so was indisposed. I added Bellatrix to the list of people who can come here earlier today.

"You know, I did discover how to fix Harry, all those years ago. But I couldn't do it myself. It's hard, and risky, and even then I wasn't exactly stable enough to do it. Hermione, Hermione might have been able to do it. She was in bad shape, even then, but I thought she could do it. She refused. Her son, you see, she was afraid what might happen to him if something went wrong; she didn't want to leave the boy, she was afraid of what Lucius Malfoy might do to him… and at the time there was no one else—

"Oh, that reminds me! I know something you don't know."

"Can't it wait, Bella?"

"Oh, it could. I could go my whole life without telling you, but I think you'd like to know."

"What is it?"

"It's about Rose. There's not a drop of Black blood in the brat."

"What's that supposed to—

Ron drops the bottle of potion he's holding, and Bellatrix is only able to catch it with magic just before it hits the ground.

Ron's face has gone even whiter than before, which he hadn't thought would have been possible.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"How do you know?"

"Old heirloom, won't work for her. Works fine for me and Scorpius."

"Wait, are you saying that Hermione—

Ron cuts him off: "If Draco's not the girl's father… then… maybe… but this changes everything."

"Really? The possibility exists?"

"Oh God! I might—Shut up! _Shut up!_," Ron clutches his head and folds in on himself. "Never mind," he whispers to himself. "Ignore. You know how he is." He straightens out and his eyes are different, full of something akin to hope. "This changes everything."

"Careful poppet. Don't get your hopes up. All you know is that Rose isn't Draco's. I wouldn't have told you until after, except… Anyway, you were explaining to Neville why we needed him. The polyjuice will run out soon, I can feel it. Might as well get the Vow out of the way. Lucius will begin to wonder where I am if I daly much more."

"Fine. Neville, sorry about getting you involved in all this. But, as I was saying, Bella has kindly volunteered to save Harry from his madness."

"Right, and I'm Queen of the Netherlands. That woman hasn't got a kind bone in her body."

"And I haven't got a sane bone in mine, which is why we need you. You see, Bellatrix and I trust each other about as far as we could throw each other without magic, and well, you don't really get a lot of exercise in Azkaban."

"What Ronnekins is trying to say is that we may be crazy, but neither of us is really stupid enough to trust the other. We need you to seal a Vow for us."

"You're going to make an Unbreakable Vow to Bellatrix Lestrange?"

Ron nods his head. "And in exchange, she's going to make an Unbreakable Vow to me. Then she's going to drink the potion I've prepared, rescue Harry, and apparate the Hell out of my life."

"Aw, Ronnekins, you injure me."

"We're close. This is the reason I left Britain so many years ago Neville. This is the reason Hermione and I postponed our marriage. It's the reason she married Malfoy. It's the reason she's in St. Mungo's. It's the reason I've been rotting in a cell in Azkaban. And this is the only chance I'll get to do it. If you don't help me, if you don't help us, everything has been for nothing."

"But what does Lestrange get out of it?"

"She gets what she wants. The only thing she wants," once more it's Harry's voice.

He turns to see Harry. His eyes are blazing with the mad light of understanding. A smile graces his lips, but there's no mirth anywhere on his face. "There's only one thing you want, isn't that right, my Bellatrix?"

The voice acts like a charm on Bellatrix, Her hair is already beginning to grow long, her eyes are sinking into her face, the form of a woman fighting to break out from Ron Weasley's shape. She steps towards Harry's bound body and raises her hand to caress his cheek. "Yes. Of course."

"You want to help me."

"More than anything."

"You want to redeem yourself."

"I've dreamt of it for so long."

"Make up for past mistakes."

"Oh, if only I could turn back time."

Suddenly, the light in Harry's green eyes changes. Bellatrix doesn't notice the change until her hand is in his mouth. Bellatrix screams out, and he finds himself in the thoroughly unpleasant situation of trying to help the woman he hates most in the world while Ron stands there and laughs.

"Are you crazy?" he calls out to Ron.

"Why is a raven like a writing desk?"

"You are crazy."

""No, I'm afraid I'm perfectly sane. The only crazy people here are Messers. Raving and Mad," Ron points out Harry and Bellatrix, but doesn't move to help, and in a panic he finally manages to wrest Bellatrix's hand from Harry's mouth, her thumb barely attached to her hand. Bellatrix curses in pain and cradles her mangled hand. Her blood is staining Harry's mouth, running down his chin, and his eyes look impossibly evil, glued to Bellatrix. He struggles against his bonds, then gives up and licks his lips. "Blood," Harry says, in a way that makes shivers run up his spine. "I need flesh. It's flesh of the servant, not blood of the servant."

"This is another spell," Bellatrix answers, recomposing herself although her thumb is still dangling from her mauled hand—a little bit of white bone can be seen through the ligaments and muscle. She taps her wand to the injury and it begins to heal itself. Within seconds the hand is as good as new and he can only gape. Poppy would blush with jealousy if she could see such fantastic healing—he's never seen anything like it, and it's another infuriating riddle about Bellatrix Lestrange: how can a woman so well versed in death be so excellent a healer? Not for the first time, he wishes the bitch were dead.

"Enough!" Ron shouts. "That's enough. Enough fun and games. Let's do what we came here to do. Bellatrix the potion's ready. Let's do the vow and get on with the ceremony."

"Yes, of course, but first," Bellatrix takes a large chunk of milk chocolate out of her pocket and offers it to Ron, "Eat this."

Ron recoils from the candy. "Bellatrix, I'm hurt."

"Eat it."

"Really? Don't you trust me?"

"Your Vow is as good as Leprechaun gold. I want Ron."

"But I _hate_ that stuff."

"Eat it, or the whole thing's off and you'll never get Granger."

A curious light, a sick desire, lights Ron's face, and then, with a grimace he rips the chocolate from her hands. The first bite is reluctant, almost disgusted, but almost as soon as the chocolate touches his lips, Ron's whole demeanor changes and he downs it like a starving man. Finally, Ron recomposes himself and stands up straight. "He wasn't lying. The potion's done."

Ron pulls a large vial from his ragged cloak. Suddenly the room, which is cold enough as it is, becomes freezing. He realizes that the contents of the vial is so dark, he can't actually see it. Hermione once told him that the muggles defined black as something which absorbs all light and reflects none, and he knows that for the first time in his life, he's really seeing black. He feels revulsion in his gut and knows, _knows_, that the contents of that vial is _evil_, _wicked_, and _wrong_.

Ron hands the vial to Bellatrix. Fear and age come into her eyes.

"You can't possibly drink that!" he cries out—inexplicably afraid for the woman he hates most in the world.

"I must," she answers, her voice far away.

"Why?"

"For me," Harry's voice answers, cold, detached, and almost as wicked as the contents of the vial.

"Enough!" Ron shouts. "The Vow, _now_."

"Ron, you can't possibly expect—

But Ron isn't listening, he reaches out, grabs Bellatrix's hand, and pulls her forcefully. He turns to Neville: "Do it. For Harry and Hermione. Bind us."

He turns to look at Harry, and meets his eyes.

"Ok" and he begins to weave the spell.

Magic binds them; Bellatrix begins to speak:

"Will you provide me with the way to save him from his prison?"

"I will."

"Will you hold your tongue and keep the secret of what happens here today?"

"I will."

"Will you refrain from harming us, me and him?"

"I will."

It's fast. The pact is made. The magic burns into them. But they don't let go.

"Again," Ron says, and Neville starts another binding charm.

"Will you free Harry Potter from his torment?"

"I will."

"Will you help me revenge myself against Lucius Malfoy?"

"I will."

"Will you help me keep Hermione, safe and by my side?"

"I will."

Again, they're bound, one to the other. He feels drained. He's never seen an Unbreakable Vow done so quickly.

Bellatrix pushes him away. He stumbles back. She rushes to Harry, and then, in a single fluid motion opens the vial and downs its contents. Immediately she doubles over. When she stands again, she's as white as bleached bones. Her eyes are black and empty. His own blood chills. _Something's gone wrong_, he thinks to himself, _this can't possibly be right_. Bellatrix lunges towards Harry, and he rushes to stop her—_she's going to kill him_. But she's too fast, and before he can pull her off the Boy Who Lived, her lips are pressed to his. Her tongue presses through his lips; it's a brutal mockery of a kiss. She looks as if though she would devour him, and Harry, Harry looks like he's powerless to stop her, of course, he's mad. It's almost like Harry is flowing into Bellatrix.

It's too much for him. He turns away from the awful spectacle. Too late—he vomits. By the time he can turn back to the horrible sight, the kiss is broken. Bellatrix is crumpled on the floor, Harry's limp in his chair. Minutes pass. He's too terrified to move. Nothing makes any sense. Then Harry's eyes blink open. Bellatrix gets up. Her eyes are human once again, but terrifying nonetheless. They're filled with hate and power; they look like the eyes of the woman who destroyed his parents and murdered Ginny Weasley.

Harry sees Bellatrix and begins to struggle against his bonds.

"Harry," Bellatrix says, in a tone that sounds almost endeared. "Where were we?"

She reaches out to cares his cheek. Harry shirks away, but oddly, so does Bellatrix. She stares at her hand in what could pass as bewilderment or incredulity. She steps backwards, then slaps Harry across the face. "What's the meaning of this Potter?"

Ron, finally, intercedes. Ron pulls Bellatrix away from Harry and pushes a mirror into her hands. "It's been 20 years. Everything will be explained." Then Bellatrix is gone, and it's only seconds later that he realizes that the mirror was a portkey.

Ron turns his attention to Harry. He pulls out a knife and breaks the ropes that tie him to the chair. Ron collapses around Harry and begins to sob.

Harry hugs him back. "Ron?" he asks, and for the first time in 20 years, Harry Potter's voice is missing the unnerving lilt of madness. "What, what's going on? The last thing I remember was Voldemort. I was going to kill him. Did I succeed? What was Bellatrix doing? Did she capture me? Did you rescue me?"

"Harry, Harry, Harry, it's been _twenty_ years since the duel with Voldemort."

Harry pulls back. "_Twenty _years? But, I was just fighting him, just now."

"No, Voldemort's been gone for twenty years. You neutralized him but lost your mind."

He can't believe it. Ron, insane, broken, wicked Ron was right. Bellatrix Lestrange has saved Harry Potter. "Harry, it's so good to have you back!"

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he knows it was a mistake to speak. Ron turns to him. "Thank you for your help Neville." It doesn't sound like thanks at all. Then—

"_Obliviate_."

**Author's Notes: **almost 6k words. So much happens in this chapter. Harry's finally back! Yay? I don't know.

I know it's been forever and a day since I updated this fic, so a lot of you have probabably lost interest. If you're still reading, I'd love a review. Hope you enjoyed it.


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